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Vol, I, No. 122. 


Hayne Home. 


ANNA OLDFIELD WIGGS. 


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o 


HAYNE HOME. 


CHAPTER I. 

A SECRET MARRIAGE. 

A syllable of dew that drips 
From out a lily’s laughing lips 
Could not be sweeter than the word 
I listened to, yet never heard. 

For, oh, the woman hiding there 
Within the shadows of her hair, 

Spake to me in an imdertone 
So delicate my soul alone 
But understood it as a moan 
Of some weak melody of wind 
A heavenward breeze had left behind. 

— James Whitcomb Riley. 

On a dull, leaden morning in April, when the sky 
flashed forth vivid streaks of lightning, and the rain 
threatened every moment to descend in a torrent, a 
carriage, drawn by spirited black horses, dashed along 
a country road and stopped before a gray stone church, 
that rested on a little knoll whose green sward was 
thickly dotted with delicate harebells. The land around 
was, for the most part, low and marshy, but the old 
graveyard, with its time-stained marble slabs looming 
up dismally against the background of threatening 


6 


HAYNE HOME. 


clouds, and the church, with its old-fashioned steeple 
pointing faithfully upwards, were on higher ground, 
and could be seen for miles around, gleaming in the 
sunlight or nestling calmly with their dead on this slight 
eminence, the target of the weather’s humor. 

The carriage stopped at the sun-warped stile, and the 
driver, instead of springing down and opening the door, 
called, in a stealthy voice, “ Mr. Warwich ! Hello ! ” 
Immediately a young man and woman appeared at 
the door of the church, the former stepping mincingly 
over the walk that spanned the yard from the door to the 
stile. Opening the carriage door, he stood smiling and 
bowing, with his hands held at half-mast in the most ap- 
proved fashion — to show their shapeliness. A young 
man with bright, handsome features and gentlemanly 
bearing descended from the carriage, and, turning to 
the man in waiting, remarked, pleasantly, “Everything 
is in readiness, I hope, Philip .? ” 

“lam sorry, Lawrence,” replied the gentleman ad- 
dressed, “the minister has not come; yet it is not 
nine o’clock. I am sure he will be on time. ” Lawrence 
Hayne then assisted his companion — a sweet, shy- 
looking girl— to alight. Philip grasped her hands in 
both his, and exclaimed, with undue enthusiasm : 

“Ah, my dear Adele ! So glad to find you looking 
as usual — charming.” 

“I don’t charming, Philip. I am a little bit 
frightened, I think,” she replied, with a great attempt 
at brightness. 

“Tush, child! You are over-excited; but a few 
minutes’ rest will allay your fears. Come into the church ; 
my wife is waiting to receive you.” 

She accepted his proffered arm and crossed over the 


A SECRET MARRIAGE. 


7 


stile. Lawrence gave some directions to the man on 
the box, and, after bidding him hasten back, the former 
followed Philip Warwich and Adele Moore to the vine- 
covered door. Addressing the young lady, he said, 
kindly : 

“Adele, I think we have time to take a short walk 
before the minister arrives. Shall we do so, and try to 
brace up our courage .? ” 

“Yes, Lawrence. That little cemetery looks so 
quiet and pretty I should like to walk there awhile." 
She smiled prettily at the couple standing under the 
woodbine as she took her lovers arm and walked 
away. 

Dick Turner was the coachman. When he descend- 
ed the hill, at a speedy trot, he came to an opening in 
the wood, drew in the reins, and looked about him 
anxiously. Only for a moment, however. A few feet 
away he saw a horse in ambush, nibbling contentedly 
at the leaves about him. Dick sounded a short ‘ ‘ Hist ! " 
between his teeth, answered immediately by“ Ahem ! ” 
and later a figure emerged from thick shrubbery, 
stepped lightly over the grassy soil to where the 
vehicle stood, and spoke patronizingly to Dick, who had 
jumped from the box and was tying the horses. “They 
are at the church and are in a hurry, " remarked the 
coachman. 

“ That is fortunate for me, as I have to solemnize a 
marriage this afternoon. Two weddings a day are 
rather encouraging for the young people. Can you tell 
me anything further relative to the condition of this mar- 
riage.!^ I always like to know as much as possible 
about the circumstances, for sometimes these runaway 
matches are troublesome. ’’ 


8 


HA YNE HOME. 


“They are that! But there is no objection to this, 
excepting that the lady’s father was cut out by the boy’s 
stepfather. The boy can’t help that, you know.’^ 

Meanwhile Lawrence Hayne and his beautiful be- 
trothed sauntered arm-in-arm through the neglected 
graveyard. The folds of her dark travelling dress 
brushed the tall grasses and passed softly over the edge 
of the mounds, as she occasionally leaned forward to 
read an inscription. 

Lawrence looked manly and altogether fearless, with 
eyes full of admiration and love for the girl at his side. 
On the contrary, she was pale and very much fright- 
ened, and all her efforts to seem gay and happy 
showed her only how frail her courage really was. At 
length she turned to her companion and whispered, as 
though afraid the dead might rise up and listen : 

“ Lawrie, I am so afraid something terrible will follow 
such a marriage as this. Every peal of thunder sounds 
to me like an awful premonition.” 

“I am so sorry, dear Adele, that we should have 
chosen such a hapless day for our marriage, but I don't 
think you should let such dread fancies crowd happi- 
ness away. You would rather marry me this way than 
not at all, would you not.? ” 

‘ ‘ Oh, dear, yes ; but ” 

“Because if I thought your scrupulous conscience 
would reproach you, I should be sorry I persuaded you 
into it. ” 

“I shall feel perfectly safe when I am your wife; 
but even my marriage will not thwart papa much. ” 

“When you are my wife your father will have to ac- 
knowledge himself thwarted. At any rate, a man who 


A SECRET MARJ^IAGE. 


9 

will ruin his child’s happiness for revenge ought to be 
thwarted. ” 

“You have no reason to like him, I know, Lawrie, 
but don’t speak ill of him, for I have left him for you. ” 

For answer Lawrence raised her hand to his lips and 
allowed her to continue. 

“Haven’t you the least apprehension, Lawrence.?” 

“ None in the least, dear. See, there, what a glorious 
burst of sunshine right over our heads; and see again, we 
are standing beside a grave that has clasped hands 
carved on it ! That, we will assume, signifies our life 
together. Well, Old Sol is rather ungenerous after all. 
He has crept back again ; but a cloudy wedding-day, 
while it is certainly unpleasant, is not portentous.” 

They had wandered into the churchyard, when Law- 
rence observed the little gloved hands folded carelessly 
on his arm, and cried : 

‘ ‘ Why, Adele, no flowers .? Who ever heard of a bride 
without flowers .? ” Stooping, he gathered a large cluster 
of harebells, and laughingly presented them to her. She 
took them, kissed them, and said, shyly : 

‘ ' I wish these sweet little bells would ring out and 
foretell my future.’’ 

“What ! Would you transform a harebell into a ne- 
cromancer.? No, my dear ; let me foretell your future ; 
have you any faith in my power .? ” 

“I have unlimited faith in your intention, so you 
may begin your revelations. I am all attention. ” 

“ Well, fair lady — as the gypsies would say — you are 
soon to wed the man you love. Am I not right .? ” look- 
ing earnestly into her face. 

“Yes, go on.” 

“And who loves you above every earthly thing?’' 


lO 


HA YNE HOME. 


“I hope SO. But you must not stop to see if you are 
correct. The gypsies don't do that:" 

“ No ? Well, then, you will go abroad and spend a 
year in Italy ; you will be supremely happy, and, when 
you return, your now irate father will receive you with 
wide-open arms ; you will settle down in a cosy, com- 
fortable home and be the joy and light of your husband’s 
life ‘ever after.’ How do you like my prognostic 
harangue ? ’’ 

“Very well; your prognostications must always be 
encouraging because of your hopeful temperament ; 

I wish I were more so.’’ 

“You will be, after you get among brighter associ- 
ations. Hello ! there comes Dick with the clergyman. ’’ 

“ I was going to say if he did not come soon I should 
be obliged to gather a fresh bouquet, as these will not 
live long; they are such short-lived little things.’’ 

“They must live to ring out your wedding march, 
since the good brethren of this parish would be scan- 
dalized to know that their organ had been subjected to 
anything so giddy as a wedding march. ’’ 

Tinkle, tinkle little bells, tinkle loudly to warn her of 
the grief that lies in store for her ! Ring out your clear- 
est notes, not in a wedding march, but a warning to tell 
her not to meet this awful doom ; tinkle, bells — quickly, 
loudly, before she crosses the sacred threshold ! 

Ah ! bells, you do not ring, and she passes through the 
vine-covered door, where the ivy thrusts out its delicate 
tendrils and kisses her face to tell her that it were better 
to live under the bane of her father’s stern will forever 
than throw herself before this unhappy fate ! But though 
the ivy kisses her face and clings to her garments, and 
twines itself about her white throat, she heeds it not. 


A SECRET MARRIAGE. 


II 


but enters the church where the shadows within those 
gloomy, molding walls flit before her, behind her, over 
her, and about her ; they nestle upon her white brow, and 
quiver and quake because they have no voice to cry 
out. But their pantomimic warning is as naught to her. 
The voice of the clergyman is weak, and falters as he, 
with fear and trembling, asks the questions of the service ; 
but she does not hear it ; she is listening for the voice 
of the flowers at her breast as they rise and fall with her 
quick breathing, shaking their tiny bells, but their 
chimes are so soft she cannot hear them ! 

“If there be any one here who knows just cause why 
these two may not be joined together, let him now 
speak or else hereafter forever hold his peace ! 

Bells, you know the cruel deception and fraud that 
awaits her ! Tinkle louder, louder! Forbid the bans! 
Shriek it out, so that the winds of heaven, kissing the 
fair young bride, may waft your warning to her ears ! 

Tinkle again and again, that your sweetest chimes 
may call on the all-wise God in supplication, to spare 
this poor helpless girl 1 Ah, timid bells, you do not ring! 
She does not know ! 

“What God hath joined together, let no man put 
asunder ! ” 


12 


HA YNE HOME. 


CHAPTER IL 

A BIT OF HISTORY. 

Fool ! vain shall thou guard thyself ! vain 
Shall thy hope be to prosper ! Thy breed 
Shall henceforth be subjects of greed, 

And perish of loss and of pain ! 

Their schemes shall all wither in hand ! 

Ere long not an inch of the land 
Shall be his that a Phillipson owns ! 

And in wretched Calgrath you never again 
Shall be rid of us haunting its stones. 

— Mary Barker Dodge, 

Hayne Home was a beautiful homestead lying in the 
northern part of Kentucky, near the Ohio shore. The 
house was old and grdy. There was moss on the roof ; 
and the trees were large and spread graciously over the 
spacious door-yard ; behind the house was an old-fash- 
ioned garden ; there were hollyhocks, primroses, cypress, 
and marigolds. The garden was encircled by a picket 
fence, old and bleached. The gravel walks, which cut 
the lawn into geometrical curves, were kept scrupulous- 
ly clean, and the soft, green turf was the result of con- 
stant care. 

The charming mistress of Hayne Home had been 
twice married ; when her first husband — James Hayne 
— died, he left her in moderately comfortable circum- 
stances, the homestead surrounded by a few acres of 
rich land being the extent of her legacy. Her two chil- 


A BIT OF HISTORY. 


13 

dren were twin boys, six years old, whom she called 
Lawrence and Charles. 

Mill Creek was a small stream of water dividing 
Hayne Home from Wicksburr, the home of John War- 
wich. This honorable and intelligent gentleman had sur- 
vived his wife four years when James Hayne died. There 
was only one child left to brighten the hours in Mr. War- 
wich’s home, and that child, Philip, was — I regret to 
say — a typical descendant of his mother’s family, crafty 
and designing, with an imperturbable determination to 
gratify self at any cost. Since he had reached the age 
when boys first realize the gratification money begets, 
he had kept a vigilant eye on his fathers enormous 
estate, knowing that, sooner or later, he would succeed 
his father and reign sole possessor of this magnificent 
domain. Affairs looked promising, certainly ; hitherto 
his father had unconsciously spurred Philip’s vanity and 
anticipation by trying to infuse a little ambition into his 
ruinously laggard mind. And it is reasonable to sup- 
pose that with this desire in view, while the parent pass- 
ed through vistas of vexation and disappointment, the 
son’s hope was buoyed by the father’s increasing energy. 

Philip was twelve and Lawrence and Charlie Hayne 
were nine years old when John Warwich announced to 
Philip his intention of marrying the exemplary widow 
Hayne. Philip was wild with anger. His father 
coaxed, pleaded, and cajoled, but the boy would not be 
appeased ; he vehemently declared that he would not 
receive her as his superior ; threatened to make her life 
so distasteful here that she would be glad to resign after 
a short experience, and with such unpardonable effront- 
ery defied his father that the latter in the heat of pas- 
sion, declared if, by any action of Philip’s, her life there 


14 


HA YNE HOME. 


proved distasteful, Philip should be disinherited and 
Lawrence should reign instead. 

This had the desired effect, inasmuch as it served lo 
quench Philip’s outward rebellion, but it only added 
fuel to the fire of hatred. 

So they were married — these neighbors who had lived 
side by side so many years, little dreaming that the 
wedlock which seemed to them consistent with their 
habits and tastes would bring about such an undeserved 
calamity. 

John Warwich formed a sincere attachment for his 
wife’s son — Lawrence ; the boy’s aptitude at learning, 
his adroitness at managing, and his interest in all mer- 
cantile pursuits, were all golden in the eyes of the step- 
father. He loved the boy, and that part of his nature 
which Philip with his unprincipled habits and indolence 
could never hope to win had been gratified by Law- 
rence's intellectual vigor. 

Philip was too shrewd and too intensely .suspicious 
not to observe this. It goaded him to hate Lawrence 
with all a boy’s hot passion. He made many attempts 
to smirch the purity of Lawrence’s character, but the 
latter, with his clear sense of honor, invariably came 
out unscathed, much to his step-father’s delight. 

At the time of Mrs. Hayne’s marriage, another house- 
hold in that community was thrown into chaos. Fred- 
eric Moore, an artist of reputed wealth, had paid marked 
attention to Mrs. Hayne, and on one occasion had driven 
over to her home, and, in a few elaborately prepared 
remarks, made known the desire of his heart — that 
she should be his wife. She kindly but firmly rejected 
him. He went away sad, but not discouraged ; the 
widow was, he thought, a little coy, but would eventually 


A BIT OF HISTORY. 


15 

make him the proudest man extant by permanently re- 
siding- at his fireside. 

But while he loitered concocting persuasive material, 
John Warwich won her. Frederic Moore exhibited in- 
tense chagrin when informed of the marriage, and being 
a man of relentless disposition — never having been 
known to forgive a wrong — allowed this one disappoint- 
ment to embitter his whole life. The result was that 
thereafter existed a feud between the families that prom- 
ised deplorable results. 

Adele Moore was at this time six years old, too 
young to comprehend the mysterious developments 
about her ; she was much terrified at her father’s ferocity 
upon this occasion, but could never fully understand 
the cause of their ruptured peace. 

Years rolled on apace. The Warwich household was 
comparatively a happy one, inasmuch as Mr. Warwich 
and his wife were perfectly congenial, he being indubi- 
tably a most affectionate father and husband. His first 
marriage proved a mistake, and,- after living several 
years with a woman of the former Mrs. Warwich’s 
erratic disposition (pleased to-day with the identical 
thing that yesterday aroused all the ire in her unusually 
antagonistic nature) it is no wonder that this home, 
where everything seemed harmonious and cheerful, 
opened unto him an earthly paradise. 

Do not imagine, dear reader, that their home was 
perfect in its harmony; there was an ^in that circle, 
just as there must be in every other affair of this world ; 
indeed, we would soon grow into mere mechanical 
functionaries if we were all perfect. So this pleasant little 
family had a hitch, and, as might be suspected, Philip 
created it. Notwithstanding the temporary fear he had 


i6 


HA YNE HOME. 


experienced at his father s threat, he had made himself 
particularly obtrusive to his step-mother. The peace 
and quiet were broken occasionally at first, but Mrs. 
Warwich was one woman among a thousand, and un- 
derstood so well how to meet Philip's advances that, 
after awhile, he not only stood in awe of her, but 
acknowledged that she possessed a magnetism too strong 
for him to cope with. 

But he would not or could not like her boys ; so a 
separation was deemed advisable, which was effected 
by Philip’s going to school ; where he remained until 
he was twenty years old ; and, although he passed 
creditably and retained the respect of the students and 
faculty, yet it was evident that the most he had learned 
was to dress faultlessly, handle his cigarette gracefully, 
and poise his walking-stick after the latest code. 

Philip was an immaculate dandy. 

In the meantime, Lawrence and Adele, true to the 
characteristics of the human family, attempted to reach 
the grapes that hung highest, oblivious of the luscious 
fruit which hung just within their reach. There were a 
dozen pair of bright eyes resting on Lawrence’s face 
from time to time. Lips had smiles for him and cheeks 
blushed rosy red at his approach. Yet he did not see 
these. He saw a face beyond that made his pulses 
thrill and heart beat fast, and told him plainer than 
words could have done that this was the one girl for 
him : and this girl was the daughter of his mother’s ad- 
versary. 

Capricious souls ! Going out to meet sorrow when 
gladness lies around you, waiting to be recognized ! 


A STERN FATHEK. 


17 


CHAPTER III. 

A STERN FATHER. 

I hated — the world was a world full of demons ; 

No face there but harbored a treacherous lie. 

The skies were as midnight — the sun’s face was hidden ; 

I shrank from the scream of the ieagulls near by. 

The voice of the robin was harsh and discordant, 

The lamb’s bleat was savage — the dog’s bark a howl, 

I forgave not a foe, and with bent head and anger, 

I passed all my friends with a dark, sullen scowl. 

— Hannah B. Gage. 

In order to make my narrative lucid I must continue 
the family history, but will be as brief as practicable. 

Philip had been at home six months, when Lawrence 
and Charlie were sent away to school. Their vacation 
was fast approaching, v/hen one day Frederic Moore 
astonished Adele by proclaiming his intention of send- 
ing her to Madame Maley’s boarding school, and con- 
cluded by saying that, as soon as her education there 
was deemed complete, she should begin the study ot 
painting, an accomplishment she particularly coveted. 

She did not in the least regret leaving home ; on the 
contrary, she looked forward with enthusiasm to the 
time when she should be at liberty to consult her own 
wishes in preference to those of her irritable parent. 
Consequently, she hailed with pleasure his announce- 
ment, and assured him she would do all in her power 
to make her progress not only sure but speedy. 

Much gratified at her ready acquiescence, he deemed 

2 


JIAYN’E HOME. 


l8 

it best to strike while the iron was hot, and continued, 
cleverly : 

“Then I would suggest, my dear Adele, that you 
start by next Saturday noon ; I shall be going to the city 
then, and shall take great satisfaction in seeing you 
safely ensconced in Madame Maley’s parlors. I shall 
write her immediately.” 

Next Saturday at noon? And Lawrence would be 
home at five ? 

Her father’s words fell cold and hard upon her ears ; 
she did not dream that his arrangements were previous- 
ly made, and that his mind was fixed as firmly as a 
stone wall. She timidly suggested that the best course 
would be for her to spend Sunday at home and start for 
school on Monday morning ; but her father would not 
hear of it ; at first he essayed to assume that he had no 
other object in thus hastening her departure than the 
fact of his having to go away, and the gratification it 
would afford him to personally introduce her to her 
future preceptress. Then, again, he urged that it would 
be a bad beginning to break in upon the first of the 
week, but she was so persistent in her entreaties, 
and appeared so grieved, that he became fearful lest 
he should yield, and perhaps, too, a bit of remorse 
stung him to anger, for he burst out in rudest tones, 
saying : 

“Adele, not another word! I understand why you 
would like to remain at home over Sunday. Though 
you have stooped to some cunning devices to deceive 
me, you have not been so cunning as you imagine. I 
learned only a short time since that you had been hold- 
ing clandestine meetings with that nasty little ” 

“Papa, please do not!” cried Adele, springing up; 


A STERN FATHER. 


19 


but her father pushed her back, and with a gesture com- 
manded silence. He glowered at her a moment ; then, 
with the most withering scorn, said : 

‘ ‘ If you were anything but the little, incipient chit 
that you are, I might feel uneasy. As it is, I could 
give you a good spanking and send you to bed. But 
I intend to put a stop to this right here, and the sooner 
you recognize my authority and respect it, the better it 
will be for you.” 

“ But, papa,” implored Adele, ‘‘ he has done nothing 
to deserve your hatred. It is ungenerous of you to 
treat us so cruelly. If you were doing it for my good, 
I should not demur, but would thank you in the end 
for your consideration. As it is, your objections seem 
unfounded.” 

“ Unfounded, girl ! When I hate him worse than any 
worm that crawls I ” 

Adele looked the contempt she felt, but replied with 
great calmness : 

“Father, Lawrence is honest, and is a true gentle- 
man, as you very well know. Yet you hate him sim- 
ply because his mother wou ” 

Adele Moore, he silent! you impertinent girl;” he 
cried, angrily, and the girl arose and walked toward the 
door, sayings sadly : “Well, papa, to satisfy your cruel 
whim, I shall be ready to start on Saturday ; you evi- 
dently think that incipient little chits ’have no sense of 
feeling ; if you will recalLyour own youth, you will be 
better able to judge. I have been told that you were an 
impassioned youth.” 

Frederic Moore stood during this recital like one 
stunned ; he had never heard Adele express herself in 
an insolent manner before; she had always been gentle, 


20 


HAYNE HOME. 


SO submissive and loving, that to hear her speak in 
such a spirited tone was something to create wonder. 
The last thrust, coming as it did in such reproachful re- 
minder, was too much for Mr. Moore’s patience ; fren- 
zied, he rushed toward her, exclaiming : 

“It makes no difference, my girl, what my youth 
was. I intend to mold yours to my own notion ; and 
it shall not be for a Hayne, either. Y ou choose to thwart 
me by the assumption of a new role, Adele. I presume 
that is due to his influence and 

“No,” she essayed to reply. 

“Never mind; his influence hereafter will amount 
to very little, since you shall be so effectually separ- 
ated that you will learn to respect your father’s wishes, 
and to address him properly.” 

“Papa, one word more. You have been a good 
father to me in a financial way. So long as I come and 
go at your rather changeable fancy, and perform faith- 
fully the offices which you choose to call a daughter’s 
duty, you are respectful and kind — nothing more. But, 
papa, you forget that I have never had a sister in whom 
to confide, or a mother to whom I could go for counsel ; 
you never have allowed me to mingle with girls outside 
of the school-room, and you rarely ever deign to notice 
me yourself ; now, tell me, is it possible fo.r a girl full 
of youth and mirth to associate with no one but a kind 
old servant, without turning imbecile — even if she does 
not do anything desperate } What kind of a girl do you 
think I am ? ” 

Her father had no reply to make ; all she said was 
true ; yet he could have struck her for telling him the 
truth. 

“ Say, papa, what kind of a girl do you think I am ? ” 


A STERN FATHER. 


21 


I think you are the most ungrateful girl Heaven 
ever sent. You do not appreciate the advantages you 
possess ; you have gotten some silly, romantic notions 
into your foolish head, and the advice of a poor, old-fash- 
ioned father has no more weight than a feather. If your 
isolation is the cause of your imbecility, perhaps your 
school-life will cure it. You are so anxious for female 
companions, you shall have them to your heart’s con- 
tent. ” 

“It is too late now. My fate is sealed as firmly as 
iron.” 

“Don’t begin to harp. You will leave here Saturday, 
at noon ; and there will be no whining about it, either. 
When Lawrence arrives, in the evening at six, he will, 
I presume, be amazed to find that he has been outwit- 
ted by an old man. ” 

He took a grim satisfaction in the pain he inflicted. 

The pathos in the deep, dark eyes, and the white, 
quivering lips, did not appeal to his sympathies. 

Adele started to the door. Her father, like an auto- 
matic figure, followed her with his eyes. Upon reach- 
ing the threshold, she turned and bent upon him a look 
so cold and sad that it stung him worse than the seve- 
rest rebuke ; and having contained himself as long as it 
were possible, he darted forward, and, grasping her arm 
in a vise-like grip, exclaimed : “ Why, in the name of 

Fate, don’t you say something } ” 

“Fate has left me nothing to say.” 

“Then go to your room and get ready for your de- 
parture, and don’t stand there like a petrified mummy ! ” 
he exclaimed furiously. 

She went away without a word, and, when she reached 
her own room, threw herself down upon the floor and 


22 


HA YNE HOME. 


cried, just as many other girls have cried when older 
heads have tried to govern younger hearts. Adele, poor 
child, thought no fate was ever so bad as hers. In af- 
ter years she looked back to that day and wondered 
why she had wept over that separation, when there was 
grief in store for her that would consume all her tears. 

But she did not know that life held realities stranger 
and sadder than fictitious romance. She had that to 
learn, and she learned it from experience. 

When she had exhausted her strength, and found that 
by so doing, she was gaining nothing and doing herself 
^n injustice, she got up and began an inspection of her 
v^drobe, which was really superior to that of any 
youpg lady in the vicinity. Her father took great satis- 
factipn in seeing his daughter dressed well. In fact, he 
prided himself in anything that reflected credit on his 
bajtk account or liberal purse-strings. 

|They werd fead days to Adele, and still sadder were 
tijose following her departure. She entered upon her 
school duties in an aimless sort of way ; but, being nat- 
urally quick, requiring only about half the amount of 
study that her companions needed, she was able, with- 
out any difficulty, to keep pace with her class. She 
was always looking forward to her vacation, not that 
she longed to see her father and spend a month in the 
glare of his disagreeableness ; yet the longing for home 
was strong within her, just as much so as though her 
home awaited her with all the allurements that girls are 
wont to enjoy. 

The word “home '' covers a myriad of circumstances. 
Compare them ! It is a vain attempt. It is not wealth 
that constitutes home : for the house may be old, with 
tattered walls and an old-fashioned white-washed fence 


A STERN FA TffER. 


23 


enclosing a garden of gaudy flowers. Y et you were born 
there. The house is the dearest spot on earth, and the 
flowers smell sweeter than any you have seen since. 
There maybe no piano standing majestically in the par- 
lor, but there is music in the voice that lulls the baby to 
sleep, and to you that music is sweeter than the instru- 
ment’s artificial tones. The parlor may be the only room 
in the house, and made to fill all the appointments of 
home, but there is rest in the splint-bottom chairs, comfort 
in the little weekly paper, contentment in the faces about 
you, and amusement in the prattle of the children’s 
tongues. There is, perhaps, only one sickly candle to 
shed its faint light upon your work, but the blazing logs in 
the old-fashioned fireplace crackle and snap so merrily, 
and the flames dance and leap so brightly, that the room 
really seems well-lighted and, when peopled with-these 
four attributes, contentment, industry, peace, and love, 
does it not form the real picture of Home? 

Prosperity is certainly to be desired. We all grasp 
for it ; thrust out our hands for it. But prosperity and 
contentment seldom go hand in hand, and that is why 
so many of our palatial homes seem so cold. They are 
brilliantly illumined, thoroughly heated, and bounte- 
ously supplied, but, in the absence of love, contentment 
cannot abide ; and in the absence of the latter the 
illumination, the heat, the glare, and glitter are cold as 
steel, and cannot warm the heart. So, after all, the lat- 
ter picture is only one of habitation. The home picture 
contains happiness, contentment, and love. 

We will pass over the long days of school-life ; the 
many anxious hours passed at the window ; the vaca- 
tions ; home longed, for, yet so eagerly fled from ; and 
the occasional note or bouquet which came from Law- 


24 


HA YNE HOME. 


rence through some mutual friend, to cheer Adele’s flag- 
ging spirits, and to encourage her to fight for the end so 
near at hand. 

They did not know how sad the ending to their 
bright dream would be. We never know until it is too 
late. 

Adele had reached her twentieth year, and Lawrence 
was twenty-three when the former returned from school. 
Days of happiness followed, wherein they were allotted 
a few hours of social enjoyment ; but, like a fell de- 
stroyer, down came the arm of the law, in the Moore 
household, and its victim, to prevent being crushed be- 
neath its weight, necessarily held herself aloof from the 
cause of her parent’s anger, and bided her time. 

When Philip had been married about a year, to a 
bright-eyed little wife of whom he was tolerably fond, 
Lawrence called one morning at his house, and, in the 
course of their conversation, Adele’s name was men- 
tioned, which turned their attention to the perplexities 
the lovers were obliged to surmount in order to have 
the least opportunity of seeing each other. Philip asked 
rather gruffly : ‘'Well, Loll, how have you been manag- 
ing your unfortunate affair lately ? ” 

“Poorly enough. In fact, Phil, I am just desperate 
enough to do something furious.” 

“Well, why don’t jom do something? Great Scott! 
Do you suppose I would sit around here, like a whip- 
ped schoolboy, and bend when old Moore said ‘bend’? 
Not much.” 

“ No, Phil, I am sure you would not. But I am such 
a drone I am sure I could never concoct the simplest 
plan without making a dead failure of the whole busi- 
ness. You are clever at schemes.” 


A STERN FA THER. 


25 

“Am I ? Well, then, why don’t you let me scheme 
for you ? ” 

“ What good does it do, Phil ?— meet and chat a half- 
hour and let the poor girl live in mortal terror for a 
fortnight lest her father find us out and send her to the 
antipodes.” 

“ It’s doggedly mean in old Moore, anyhow.” 

“Yes, it’s mean, but it can’t be helped.” 

“Yes, it can be helped, if you will not be a ninny, 
Why don’t you get married } ” Philip asked with the 
utmost indifference. 

“ Get married, and never see my wife afterward. No, 
thank you.” 

“ATe could not take her away from you, for you 
are both of age. Get married. Loll. I will help you, 
and when you are gone on your wedding-trip old 
Moore can entertain himself by kicking himself tired. 

“Mr. Moore would never forgive Adele, and she 
would always be unhappy. Besides, how should I ac- 
complish it 1 Our pastor would not consent to do it, 
because he and Mr. Moore were great friends ; and, be- 
side, he is so very conscientious,” Lawrence remarked, 
frankly. 

“Well, let me fix it, Lawrence. I am sure I can ar- 
range it satisfactorily. I will send to town for a clergy- 
man, and we can all meet at Woodale Chapel some 
morning, early enough for you to catch the nine o’clock 
train for the city. Then here is your chance to take 
that trip to Italy you have been planning ever since you 
were in knee pants. Pshaw ! I could have had this 
arranged long ago, and been half-forgiven by this 
time.” 

‘ ' I never hope to be forgiven. If I get the girl I 


26 


IIAYNE HOME. 


will have to be happy without the forgiveness ; can’t 
have everything; you know ? ” 

After a moment’s reflection, he added : "‘I will speak 
to Adele about it, and abide by her decision. ’’ 

“She don’t think much of you if she won’t do that 
much for you,” Philip sarcastically observed. 

“The amount of affection she lavishes upon me 
does not worry me one bit,” Lawrence replied in the 
same tone, but with a faint smile. 

Shortly after this conversation took place Lawrence 
went home. He met Charlie in the garden, and sat 
down upon a rustic bench to have a smoke and a chat 
with him. As Lawrence’s mind was filled with thoughts 
of his betrothed and their ill-success, the conversation 
naturally reverted to his visit to Philip, and his offer of 
assistance. 

“Charlie,” he began, “don’t you think we have 
misjudged Phil? The old boy is a little queer, to be 
sure, but, after all, he is made of good stuff. I am 
really afraid we have been too willing to look upon his 
bad qualities in preference to his good ones. Are you 
not ? ” 

“No, I can’t say that I am,” Charlie replied, blunt- 
ly* 

“Well, now, look here, Charlie. He has offered to 
help me out of my present dilemma and get me away 
from here to escape Mr. Moore’s wrath, knowing at the 
same time that he will suffer more or less annoyance 
for being implicated in it. Is that not clever, now ? ” 

“ Looks clever, certainly,” doggedly answered Char- 
lie. 

“You must not forget, Charlie, ih^Xj/ou refused to 
help me once when I wished to bring Adele up to Col- 


A STERN FA THER. 


27 


lege Mount, just to have one happy, peaceful day with 
her." 

Ido not forget, Loll, that I refused to help you in a 
pleasure that would subsequently ruin her character. 
Adele would trust you to the ends of the earth, and you 
are so foolishly impulsive. Loll. You would risk your 
life for a day's frolic. " 

“Well, that has nothing to do with Phils kindness; 
he has shown himself to be the real friend after all. 
And from this time on I am his friend, and I hope to 
repay him for some of my past ugliness." 

Charlie drummed on the arm of the rustic seat, and 
complacently surveyed the flower-stalks standing bare 
and naked, waiting for May with her sweet warm air 
and warm sun to come and open the prison-doors and 
send forth buds and bloom. 

Lawrence continued, not in the least abashed at his 
brother's silence : 

“Charlie, I wish you were more easily won over. 
You " 

“ Wish you were 7iot so easily won over." 

“But, boy, it is so ungenerous to cling to a prejudice 
so persistently. You never give anybody a chance to 
redeem himself." 

“Lawrence," and Charlie was in earnest now, “I 
don't cling to them. My prejudices cling to me ; I 
could no more shake them off than I could shake this 
tree. I don't form my opinions hastily. If you re- 
member, you were the first to complain of Phil's misde- 
meanors, while I refused to see them ; but after I had 
studied him I learned him, and if I am prejudiced it is 
because I think I have a good reason to be." 

“Well, then, Charlie, nurse your pet theory to your 


28 


HA YNE HOME. 


heart s satisfaction ; 1 shall go to Phil for the favor 
my brother declines to grant/’ 

“ I have not refused to help you get married, Loll ; 

I should have done that long ago ; but not in partner- 
ship with hi?n.” 

‘‘Don’t put yourself to any uneasiness,” Lawrence 
replied, with evident displeasure ; “lean get on without 
your services very well, since such things are not to 
your taste,” and sauntered off toward the house. 

Charlie turned into the lane and wandered aimlessly 
down toward the little stream of water which had lis- 
tened to so many happy tales of love, so many heart- 
aches, and read the inner pages of so many lives. 

As he walks indolently along one would not turn to 
look at him twice, as would perhaps be the case were 
Lawrence in his place. Lawrence was tall and broad- 
shouldered. His appearance was striking. His eyes 
were of the clearest sparkling blue ; fringed with fair 
lashes corresponding with the hair whose mischievous 
ripples could not hide the contour of the well-poised 
head. He always met his friends with a smile, not in- 
frequently accompanied by a charge of raillery. 

Charlie was the exact opposite. With eyes and hair 
jetty black, and a complexion as rich as a ripe peach, 
he was never animated in his manner — very good- 
humored but droll. He never spoke one word more 
than was necessary to frame his meaning. But his 
most charming trait was his kind-heartedness, though 
whatever generous deeds he may have done would never 
be known through any action of his own. 

Being shrewd in his calculations of human nature, it 
was after months of careful observation that he came to 
distrust his step-brother, and to experience a keen dis- 


A STERN FATHER. 


29 


like for him. But, being generous as well as sagacious, 
he wisely forebore mentioning to any one the idea he 
had formed of Philip's nature. 

As Charlie strolled languidly down the lane this 
morning, trying to plant ideas in his mind that might 
sprout and develop into a scheme to help Lawrence, 
he saw no one, nor heard Philip’s footsteps fall softly 
upon the grass, until he had thrust his shoulder against 
Philip’s broad chest. 

The latter seemed to enjoy the incident, and laughed 
heartily over it, whereas Charlie could see nothing 
amusing in it at all. 

With his usual preface — ‘‘Well !” Philip remarked, 
“ I thought you were walking with your eyes shut” 

“No; thinking.” 

“ Thinking P Well, dear me, I did not know you 
ever indulged,” with unveiled ridicule, but, receiving 
no answer, continued : “By the way, Charlie, I want 
to talk with you. Let us walk down to the, creek. ” 

“Just where I was going.” 

“Well, say, Charles, it is about Loll that I wish to 
talk. ” 

“ So .? Go on ; I am listening. ” 

“You are just as anxious to help him out of this un- 
happy strait as I am ; are you not .? ” questioned 
Philip. 

“ Think lam” with a touch of scorn, “ if it will not 
lead him into a worse strait.” 

“ It can’t do that if we help them to get married. 
We can arrange it so slyly that old Moore can’t have a 
suspicion of it until they are safely out of this neighbor- 
hood and about to sail for Italy. Then the old gentle- 
man can spout all he wants to.” 


30 


HAYNE HOME. 


“ But how can we effect the arrangements ? ” 

“ Well, I had thought this would be a good plan : 
To send one of the servants up to town for a minister 
and instruct him to meet us at Woodale some morning 
about eight o’clock, and while my wife and I wait upon 
them at the church, Dick can drive, and you can either 
meet them there or come down with them in the car- 
riage. ” 

While Philip talked he watched Charlie out of the 
corner of his eye. 

“ Phil, why in the nation are you so anxious to help 
Loll all at once ? ” 

A vinegar smile accompanied Philip’s answer. 

“ All at once .? Well, my boy, if you will allow me. 
Loll was always my favorite.” 

“ Oh, of course, /never did aspire to the honor.” 

“ Never craved it, either, did you?” 

“ No. Could not digest it. But that is not answer- 
ing my question. What motive prompts you to want 
to get Loll married ? Just to see her father wreak his 
revenge upon them ?” 

“Why. should / wish to see them suffer?” Philip 
exclaimed, with an effort to stifle his anger. ‘ ‘ I did not 
use to like you boys very well ; but don’t you suppose 
a fellow can outgrow those childish prejudices ? ” 

' ^ / can't. ’’ 

“ Well, don’t judge everyone else by your own faults. 
Why do you wonder at my impulse, and ask me such 
an unkind question ? ” 

“ Because it seems strange to me that, after being 
cut out by a fellow, you should try so hard to help him. 
Perhaps you want to pour coals of fire upon his 


A STERN FA THER. 


31 

head ? You would burn a tunnel clear through to his 
heels at this rate.’’ 

Charlie Hayne, you have assumed that Loll cut me 
out. Will you tell me how ? ” 

‘ ' Why, Phil, everybody knows that you tried to get 
Adele.” 

Philip was white to the lips, and panting like a mad- 
man. 

“ Now, you swallow that, or I’ll ” 

Charlie put up his hand, and said, coolly : “ Don’t 

do anything rash, Phil. You have said barbarous 
things to me, and I never attempted to strike you.” 

Philip stepped back, and, with a look of intense 
scorn, replied: “No, you coward, you would not lift 
your finger to save yourself from perdition.” He 
walked away a few feet, and, coming back, drew a 
long breath, and asked, with affected calmness : “Well, 
are you going to help me ? ” 

“ Help you in such a nasty plot as you are hatch- 
ing? No! I will be helping you out of the country 
when your infernal business is found out.” 

Philip put his hand on his hip-pocket, and whispered 
hoarsely : “ What infernal business ? ” 

“ I don’t know,Thil, what it is, but it reminds me of 
the pear that the old fruit-vender gave Folle Farine. It 
looks nice, but, having been given gratuitously, it must 
be rotten somewhere.” 

Philip stood perfectly rigid, and never moved his eyes 
from Charlie’s face. 

“ I don’t know, Phil, what your scheme is, but it is 
a dead shot at Loll, and I will see you in Halifax before 
I will help you.” 

When he had finished speaking he turned and walked 


HA YNE HOME. 


32 

a few steps toward the water, Philip stepped after 
him, and said : “ Charles, you will take that back, or 
I " 

“You will what?” cried Charlie, wheeling around 
to face him. He looked directly into the ‘muzzle of a 
revolver. 

“ Shoot the lying head off of you ! ” 

Charlie, fearing he meant to fire, threw up his hand 
just as Philip drew the trigger, the action turning the 
weapon directly toward Philip’s shoulder ; so that the 
ball intended for Charlie’s head lodged in Philip’s left 
shoulder. He fell limp and bleeding to the ground. 
At that moment a man sprang over the hedge behind 
them, and, without one word, dropped at Philip’s side, 
and began to tear away his clothing. Philip was un- 
conscious, and lay like a corpse. Charles, too stunned 
to speak for awhile, now cried, “ O Dick, I did not 
mean to do it ! I did not shoot him.” 

“ Hush, Charles. I saw it all ; he is not badly hurt, 
but we must get him home aS soon as possible.” 

Charlie stood nervously rubbing his hands together 
for a moment; then suddenly exclaimed : “Yes, let’s 
go home. Come, Dick, we can carry him on this big 
plank.” They took a wide board which was sometimes 
used for a platform when the water was high, and, plac- 
ing him upon it, started toward Philip’s home. Dick 
suggested that someone had best tell Mary about it 
as she was particularly nervous, and the shock would 
make her perfectly wild with fear. But Charlie told 
him that Mary was not at home, and would not be until 
after luncheon, so they carried their burden home, and 
with the assistance of the housekeeper got him safely 
to bed, and sent for the doctor immediately. The ball 


A STERN- FA THER. 


33 


had not gone deep, and, after a tedious probing, was 
extracted. In a few minutes more Philip had regained 
consciousness. They did not send for Mary, the house- 
keeper averring that she would make matters worse, 
and, being competent herself to do everything, they all 
agreed to keep Mary in ignorance of it until she should 
arrive home. When the servants gathered around to 
see the unconscious man they had scores of questions to 
.ask as to the cause of the accident, and, when told that 
Philip had aimed at a mark, and, missing it, had struck 
his own shoulder, they expressed their astonishment at 
the idea of as good a marksman as Mr. Warwick missing 
his aim so far as to shoot his own shoulder. By this 
time Philip began to show signs of returning conscious- 
ness, and all inquiries were suspended until he was 
able to answer them himself. When he opened his 
eyes and saw the doctor’s face and others about him, 
it was some little time before he could remember the 
cause of his pain and sick feeling. 

‘‘Are you in much pain, Mr. Warwick? the doctor 
inquired. 

“Horrible. Let me see, I shot ” 

“Did you shoot yourself, Mr. Warwick? 

“ How did I get home ? ” he asked, ignoring the doc- 
tor’s question. 

Thinking his mind wandered, they replied; “Char- 
lie ” 

“ Is Charlie here ? ” Philip queried, eagerly. 

“Yes, Philip. Tell us who shot you ; we must find 
out, you know.” 

Charlie arose from his chair, and looked straight at 
Philip, who rather shrank from the earnest look bent 
upon him, and replied : 


3 


34 


HA YNE HOME. 


“ It was an accident ; I fired the shot myself/' 

Every one drew a long breath of relief, but inadvert- 
ently glanced at Charles who had been seen looking at 
Philip in that menacing manner, and the doctor avowed 
to himself that there was a screw loose somewhere, and 
that Charlie had something to do with the shooting. 

One by one they 'vacated the room, until no one re- 
mained but Dick and Charlie. Philip had not observed 
the former, and, believing that he was quite alone with 
his step-brother, remarked, with an effort : 

“You did not tell them how it happened, Charles 

“No, of course I did not,” Charlie answered, piqued 
to think that even such a man as Philip should question 
his sense of honor. 

Philip, not heeding the injured tone, went on heart- 
lessly : 

“I observed, Charles, that they all looked doubtful 
when I said that T fired the shot." 

‘ ‘ Did they ? I wonder what they could have meant .? ” 
he answered, with assumed innocence. 

“Meant.?” Philip replied. “Why they meant that 
every deuced one of them thought I ‘prevaricated."^ 

“You take such an assumption coolly.” 

“ I wanted them to think it,'' 

“And why ? ” 

“ When you attempt to interfere with my affairs, you will 
find out." 

Dick jumped up to defend Charlie against such a 
shameful abuse as the last thrust, but the latter signi- 
fied with his hand that he did not desire Philip to know 
of the presence of a third party. So Dick sat down, and, 
shortly after, Mary came home and almost went into 
hysterics at the news of the accident 


CHARLIE'S DEPARTURE. 


35 


The boys did not remain long. As Charlie passed 
the bed upon which Philip lay, the latter said, mock- 
ingly, ‘ ‘ Will you help me now, Charlie ? ” 

“A^, I will not help you now.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Charlie’s departure. 

Dear country home ! can I forget 
The least of thy sweet trifles — 

The window vines which clamber yet, 

Whose blooms the bee still rifles ; 

The roadside blackberries growing ripe, 

And in the wood the Indian pipe ? 

— R. H. Stoddard. 

Prudence Wells was a woman old enough to be 
Charlie’s mother. She had been their nurse when the 
boys were toddling babies, and had remained with the 
family up to the time of her mistress’ second marriage. 
Prudence was one of those rare paragons of femininity 
who possess a sweet mixture of common-sense and 
adaptability. She had a knack of cheating accidents 
by her always ready appliances, and, being recognized 
as something above the average servant, had gradually 
become one of the family, until now even the neighbors 
frequently called her Aunt Prue, When Mrs. Warwich 
left Hayne Home for Wicksburr, Prudence and her hus- 
band, the gardener, took possession of the old home- 
stead, and, in their old-fashioned, queer way, were 
happy and much respected. 

Charlie had always been Aunt Prue’s favorite ; not 
because of any outward attractiveness, but because 


HAYNE HOME. 


36 

Laurie, with his great blue eyes and sunny hair, won 
hearts everywhere, while poor, plain, little Charlie was 
often neglected by all but Aunt Prue. It may have 
been only a sympathetic preference, upon her part, but it 
was sweet to the boy, and he never forgot it. It was 
no unusual thing for Charlie, since he had grown into 
manhood, to go to his old nurse and confide his griev- 
ances. 

So it happened that, one night, two weeks after the 
accident to Philip, Charlie, having nothing at hand to 
break the tedium of the day, walked over to Aunt 
Prue’s, promising himself a nice little chat with that 
estimable individual. As he crossed her threshold he 
found her industriously preparing an appetizing meal. 

Good-evening, Aunt Prue. Busy with your din- 
ner? Oh, I am just in time for one of those nice hot 
biscuits. ” 

Turning round, and smiling in her grim fashion, she * 
said : “Yes, Charlie. Just in time. Come in.’' 

“Your cooking suits my palate. Aunt Prue, better 
than anyone else’s. The sight of your table and 
the odor of your cooking invariably sharpens my ap- 
petite.” 

“ Yuh’d better come an’ stay with us, Charlie. Yuh 
haint no idee how lonesome-like we git, sometimes, 
John an’ me.” 

“ But you have Dick. I should think such a jolly 
fellow as he is would be a whole crowd. ” 

“No, he haint, Charlie. Dick’s a first-rate feller, and 
we’ve tuk to ’im right smart — more’n I thought we ever 
could; but, land sakes, Charlie, he hain’t no hand to 
sit down an’ talk a spell with old folks like me ’n’ 
John.” 


CHARLIE^ S DEPARTURE. 


37 

"‘No; Dick is too full of activity to sit down and 
talk merely. He is very much attached to you, Aunt 
Prue.” 

“Yes, quite a bit, "'she replied, with pride. “ Charlie, 
what yuh goin’ to do this summer ? ” she asked, sud- 
denly. 

“ I have a great mind to take a trip through the 
North, Aunt Prue. I must either do that or go to town 
and engage in business. ” 

“ What fur ? ” she asked, with habitual curtness. 

“ Well, because I am getting too restless for this 
kind of a life. It is too stagnant for me. Goodness, I 
shall be covered with blue-mold before long.” 

“ Wouldn’t be in no hurry to travel, Charlie. It’s 
mighty bad fur young men to go a-travelin’. Some- 
times they turn out bad ; and, anyhow, they alius git 
unsettled like.” 

“ Oh, as for that, I couldn’t get any more unsettled 
than I am, and I must do something.” 

“ What does your mother say } ’’ 

“ Hates awfully for me to go ; but don’t blame me.” 

At this juncture Dick Turner came into the room ; a 
great, stalwart, good-natured country boy, who had, in 
his infancy, been given by his dying mother to Aunt 
Prue ; and Dick, though quite competent to earn a 
livelihood, remained on the farm, and did menial ser- 
vice rather than leave the crisp, queer old lady who 
had always been so kind. 

“Hear I am. Auntie, hungry as a black bear.” 

“You alius air, Dick. Yuh’ve got the beatenest ap- 
petite I ever see. ” 

Dick doffed his hat respectfully to Charlie. 

The boys had all grown up together, Dick being three 


38 


HA YNB HOME. 


years younger than the Hayne twins ; but Aunt Prue 
had never allowed Dick to treat the boys familiarly, 
and since he was grown their friendliness never caused 
him to forget that he was only their servant’s proiege, 
and that there could be nothing more than the respect 
felt between servant and master. 

‘‘Good-evening, Charles. I am glad to find you 
here. I have something to say to you.’’ 

“ So ? What is it ? ” 

“ This evening, while putting away Philip’s horse, I 
overheard a conversation which either he wanted me 
to hear or else he thought I could not hear, don’t know 
which ; but, anyway, he gave you blazes.” 

‘ ‘ Me ? ” cried Charlie. ‘ ‘ What about } ” 

“ The shooting. He was telling Mary and her 
father about it, and said that you aimed the shot a+ his 
head, and that he struck the revolver to ward off the 
blow, and sent it into his shoulder. ” 

‘ ‘ Did he say that, Dick / ” 

“ Yes, he did. And Mary said ; ‘Why, Phil, why 
did you not tell us this before ? ’ And Phil said : 
‘Well, Mary, his mother is my father’s wife, and I 
could not at first bear the idea of bringing such disgrace 
upon their gray heads. But that little puppet is getting 
too obtrusive of late, and I intend to inform him that 
he is one too many — if he don’t keep inside his own 
limit’” 

“S’posehe means by that, if I don’t mind my own 
business, the world is wide, and there is more room out- 
side of Hayne Home than in. What have I done } ” 

“lam afraid he means trouble, Charles,” remarked 
Dick, regretfully. 

“Trouble ? He can’t cause me an ounce that won’t 


CHARLIE’S DEPARTURE. 


39 


bring: him a pound ; but the worst part is, I hate to ‘ fight ’ 
my own family, and if he accuses me, why, in self-de- 
fense, I must accuse him ; and, as no one would believe 
me, inasmuch as the wound was a peculiar self-inflicted 
one, I should 

^‘You could prove your innocence by me, Dick cried, 
eagerly. 

“Yes, thank, you, Dick, I could drag you into it; 
and there would be scandal and disgrace and sorrow for 
mother, and no end of annoyance to you and Aunt 
Prue.’’ Turning to the latter, he said : “ Can’t you tell 
a fellow what to do. Aunt Prue ? ” 

The good little woman addressed had heard every 
word, but made no sign of having heard. She went on 
with her dinner, her mouth pursed up in the most com- 
ical fashion — a habit of hers when in deep thought. 
Her suggestions always came like electric shocks, and 
this one was no exception : 

Stand up together — you two !” 

“ What for .? inquired Charlie. 

“Cause !” was her all-sufficient answer. 

“Good reason!” commented Dick, laughingly, as 
they arose and stood before her for inspection. 

She surveyed them critically for a moment ; afterward 
she turned away and went about her duties, without 
the least intimation that she was through with her ex- 
amination. 

The young men looked at each other and smiled, and 
Dick called, in- his cheery voice : “Next!” which had 
the effect of recalling Prudence to their aid : 

“ Yuh’d better go a-trav’lin’ Charlie.” 

“Oh, no. Aunt Prue, not now T’ 

“Why not?” she asked, imperiously. 


40 


HAYA'^E HOME. 


“ Run away ? Too cowardly ! ” 

"‘No, ’taint, neither. They haint ’cused yuh yit, an' 
everybody knows yuh’ve been dyin’ to see them there 
furrin parts, an’ this is yer time to go. ” 

“Oh, well, I can’t ” 

“Yes, but you will. I think it’s best.” 

“ No, I won’t run off ; fight first ! ” 

“Well, then, come an’ set down to dinner. Dick, 
call John, an’ come on to the table, an’ I’ll tell you what 
I think I’ll do.” 

They sit down to the table, and while the three kind- 
hearted people wait upon and serve Charlie to flaky 
biscuit and honey, nice sweet ham, with an omelette 
of the freshest eggs. Aunt Prue unfolds a plan which 
falls in welcome showers upon their ears. 

The following day Charlie announces his intention of 
traveling for a couple of months, and on the next Satur- 
day Charlie is driven up to the city to take the train, 
and Dick is his driver. 


CHAPTER V. 

CRONIE AND DICK. 

And I thirst the loved forms to see, 

And I stretch my fond arms aromid, 

And I catch but a shapeless sound, 

For the living are ghosts to me. 

— Lord Lytton. 

With Charlie gone and Philip recovered there was 
really nothing to bar the progress of a speedy marriage. 

Lawrence was as wax in Philip’s hands, and the sweet, 
trusting Adele readily acquiesced to any arrangement 
that Lawrence might suggest. The latter and Philip had 


CRONIE AND DICK. 


41 


agreed upon a plan for the consummation of their hopes, 
and all that was to be done was to send for the minister. 
Philip, in passing down the lane, met Cronie, an old 
Irishman, who had been in their employ when Philip s 
mother lived. This rheumatic and decrepit old man 
came shuffling along, and would have passed with his 
customary “Morning!” but was arrested by Philip, 
who had something to say. 

Cronie was a trifle deaf, consequently it required more 
than a mere movement of the lips to make him under- 
stand. Drawing him aside, Philip cast stealthy glances 
in every direction to assure himself that they were quite 
alone. Seeing no one, he proceeded to unfold a plot 
as atrocious as a vile imagination, spurred by a heart 
full of revenge, could conjure. Philip hesitated at first ; 
his course was not so clearly mapped out as he wished, 
but he trusted to Cronie's shortsightedness and dull com- 
prehension to help him out. 

“Cronie,” he began, cautiously, “ you have lots of 
chums in town who would be glad to make a dollar or 
two extra, haven’t you } ” 

“Sure, yees, Misthur Warwich.” 

“Well, don’t you think, Cronie, that you could get 
some fellow to come down here and play parson for me 
if I paid him handsomely ” 

Cronie scratched his head and shut one eye. 

‘ ‘ Play phat } ” 

“Play preacher — pretend that he is a preacher.” 

“An, sure, phat fur.?” he asked, stupidly. 

Philip was getting impatient, but it would not do to 
let Cronie see it ; there was none else whom he would 
dare ask such a favor from. So he bit the end of his 
cigarette, lifted his hat a couple of times by way of re- 


42 


HA YNE HOME. 


pressing- his rising temper ; and mentally called Cronie 
a dolt. 

‘‘Now, look here, Cronie, I didn’t care to enter into 
details, as the affair is not mine ;• I am simply trying to 
help another fellow. But I’ll explain it to you, so that 
you will make no mistake — though, mind you, Cronie, 
it is in confidence — not one word about it to anyone, 
not for your life. There is a young couple near here 
who have been married for several months, but their 
families don’t know it ; excepting that her mother has 
received an intimation of it some way, and has asserted 
that the marriage was not legal, and they cannot prove 
it to her, for they are too far away from the records. 
Well, now, what they want is to have the ceremony 
performed again, to please the girl’s mother, and, you 
see, if they employ our minister, the marriage will soon 
leak out — 

“An’ sure, if the gairl’s folk know it, whoy in the 
airth do they want to kape it sthill yit ? ” 

“Why, indeed.?” Philip hesitated, and chewed the 
end of his cigar again. After a moment’s reflection, he 
said : 

“Why, you see, Cronie, the boy is not twenty-one 
yet, and can’t get his money until he ts twenty-one, and 
his folks could make it mighty hot for him ; so all they 
want is to go through another ceremony ; then her 
mother will let her alone.” 

“’Twouldn’t do, Oi reckon, to have a regular 
pracher .? ” 

“No, no, of course not; ’twould get into the papers 
^ and records by that, don’t you see .?” 

Cronie did not see, but he said he did. Philip’s tale 
seemed thin to him, but he had done favors for Philip 


CRONIE AND DICK. 


43 


that were more attenuated than this, and so far they 
had brought him no trouble. So he listened attentively 
while his master explained to him the part he was to 
perform. The old man opened his eyes in stupid 
amazement when told that he was to go up to the city 
and employ one of his friends for the principal part of 
the drama. 

‘ ‘ Me go to town at noight ? — an ould mon loike me } 
Now Misther Warweech, Oi ain't ben theyer fur foive 
years, and it's mesil 'at 'ud git befuddled in their 
sthraights and corners, sure." 

“Ah, Cronie, don't harp ; who's been a better friend 
to you than I have t Would I ask you to do anything 
that would get you into danger t Now, brace up and 
do as I tell you ! Go up on the night train, and go 
straight to somebody's house, whom you think will do 
this job for $2$ or $30, and tell him to dress neatly and 
becomingly, and to study the service well. He must 
be at Woodale church at nme o'clock sharp, to-morrow 
morning. I am sure, Cronie, I can trust you to do this 
thing properly." He listened a moment, and said, 
softly. “ Go on, and don’t forget." 

Philip retraced his steps homeward, and Cronie 
shuffled at a limping gait down toward the foot of the 
lane. He always talked to himself, and, not knowing 
how loudly he spoke, was apt to make his words fatally 
distinct sometimes. On this occasion, excitement lent 
zest to his mutterings, and quite audibly he exclaimed : 

‘ ‘ Sendin' an ould mon loike mesil to the city in the 
dead o' the noight. Sure an' Oi'll niver git back aloive 
at all. " 

“What's the matter, Cronie ? " 

It was Dick's voice that spoke ; and Dick’s face that 


44 


HA YNE HOME. 


peered at the old man through the hedge, and though 
the opening through which he looked was small, yet 
his face was plainly pictured in the foliage. 

^^Matihur, Dick Oi am to go sthumblin' me way 
into the town, after the sun is down, an’ the sthraights 
are dairk, an’ git a mon to coum an’ — sure an’ it’s 
mesil at’s after fergettin’ me blissid orders.” 

“Never mind, Cronie, I heard your orders anyhow, 
and say, Cronie, how would you like for me to do that 
errand for you ! ” 

“Hey.?” 

“Aunt Prue says she wants some things from town 
this week, and I’ll do that for you. I heard what he 
said, and I know lots of fellows that I am sure would 
do it.” 

“Faith, Dick ; it’s me head as ’ud git sphlit fer doin’ 
the loikes o’ that.” 

“I’ll answer for your head. You just go over to 
Aunt Prue’s and stay ’till I get back, and Mr. Warwick 
will never know the difference.” 

Cronie was easily won over ; and on the following 
morning the marriage, recorded in the opening chapter, 
took place, and two lives, which were made to be 
beautiful and full of joy, were, by this secret marriage, 
wrecked and marred. 

* * * * . * 

The ceremony being ended, the bridal-party began 
making preparations for hasty departure. 

There was no register in the church, but the minister 
walked into the pulpit, wrote something, then motioned 
Mary Warwick to come to him. 

She glanced around for her husband, but Philip had 
gone to get his own buggy to the door to avoid delay. 


CRONIE AND DICK. 


45 


‘‘Madam,” the clergyman said, “you will be kind 
enough to sign your name as one of the witnesses. We 
want another. Where is your husband.?” 

Mary knew Philip would not relish a descent from 
the buggy and an extra dash through the wet grass, so 
she hastened to say that her husband had gone out, and 
inquired if this young man would not do as well. 

“Certainly,” replied the minister, addressing Dick. 
“Come here, if you please, and sign this certificate, 
and then give it to Mrs. Hayne. As it is late, I will 
bid you good-morning.” With a few pleasant words 
to Adele the man passed out of the house, and mount- 
ing his horse, dashed down the road and out of sight 

Dick penned a hasty signature, smiling broadly mean- 
while ; when he had given it the final stroke, he folded 
it hastily and thrust it into his pocket ; then hurriedly 
left the house, to bring the carriage to the door. 

The rain was pattering softly on the warped shingles, 
and seemed singing a melancholy song, so solemn and 
death-like that Adele would gladly have closed her ears 
to shut out the sound. 

Dick had driven up to the stile with the carriage, 
and Lawrence had just emerged from the vine-covered 
door with his fair young wife leaning upon his arm, 
when their ears were pierced by a peal of thunder, 
long and loud ; and the lightning blazed around them 
ominously. As they stepped out upon the damp ground, 
a few large rain-drops fell upon Adele’s face. They 
seemed like cool sweet touches of friendly hands, and 
bathed her heated temples and burning eyelids. 

But the thunder, and the flashes of lightning ! 

All else seemed so still, no one had aught to say. 
There was no sound but the banging of the carriage 


HA YNE HOME. 


door until the horses put their feet down upon the stony 
ground and started away. The good-byes were said 
quietly. After they were well on the way, Adele, to 
break the awful stillness-, said, shiveringly : 

“What a black marriage morn ! 

“Yes, it is dark, Adele, but let us hope that the clouds 
have silver linings. ” 

“You are so hopeful, Lawrence ; I hope constant as- 
sociation with you will dispel my moroseness. But, 
indeed, I have always been so prejudiced against 
secret marriages that my own fills me with dread.” 

“ I should not have insisted upon this course, Adele, 
if there had been even a shadow of hope that your father 
would ever consent ; but why wait and waste all these 
years in a vain hope that he will relent } We have done 
nothing that is not justifiable under the circumstances.” 

“But I never — really never — have in my experience 
seen a marriage of this kind turn out well. They 
always end so disastrously. ” 

“Oh, no, dear, not always. That is just because 
people usually point out these marriages as examples. 
On the other hand — where parents give their children 
away in marriage, willingly, and perhaps make a 
magnificent display of it — if, later on, that couple are 
unfortunate, and do not live happily, the world, or at 
least that malicious portion of it that does nothing but 
criticise, falls upon them with exultant criticisms, and 
the atmosphere is smoky with ‘ I told you so's ’ and 
^mesalliance,’ etc. The form of the nuptials, dear, has 
nothing to do with it. ” 

“It is refreshing to hear you say so, Lawrence, and 
I’ll try to see it your way, anyhow. It must be a great 


CRONIE AND DIGK. 


47 

deal more,comforiable”^\iQ replied, with an effort at 
brightness. 

As it is not customary to accompany the “happy 
pair,” we will not follow them to Italy, but will bid them 
farewell and bon voyage aS they cross the gang plank 
of the steamer Trust 

Scarcely one out of ten of us can form an exact 
estimate of futurity. Many persons cling to the belief 
that circumstances are like dreams — contrary. Fre- 
quently they appear so ; as, when Adele attempted to 
imagine the manner in which her father would receive 
the announcement of her flight, she calculated upon 
anger, curses, and immediate pursuit, the picture repel- 
led her ! 

But 'could she have witnessed the blow she gave 
him, and the result, she would have softened and 
relented. 

Nettie, the colored housekeeper, brought him a little 
paper that morning, and waited while he read it. He 
took it carelessly, put on his glasses and read : 

“Father. I know you cannot forgive me, but I do 
not regref the step I am taking. Lawrence and I will 
be on our way to New York when this reaches you. 

“Adele.” 

No curses, no anger, no pursuit ! 

He sank into a chair and covered his face with his 
hands. He never knew how long he sat there, nor 
what brought him to his senses ; but old Nettie never 
forgot his white face nor the hopeless sorrow in his eyes 
as he said : 

“She is dead to us, Netty. Never mention her name 
to me.” 


48 


HAYNE HOME. 


And that was all I All ? Was it not enough that in 
one wee hour he lived all his life over again ; looked 
into the dead face of his broken-hearted wife, and read 
reproach there that would forever thrust cruel shafts at 
his broken peace ? Was it not enough to recall the life 
history of his child, and recognize on every page his 
indifference and his churlishness ? Could anger and 
curses cause the pungent pain that remorse inflicted ? 
Adele’s marriage was a magnifying lens held up between 
his vision and the past ; he looked through it, and saw 
a life-failure. Then he knew what it was to regret. 

At Wicksburr affairs went on the same. Mrs. War- 
wich learned of Lawrence’s marriage with distinctive 
calmness. She had anticipated such an event ; but, 
nevertheless, it came with a hard ring upon her heart, 
and she always liked to remember that, on the previous 
evening, he had come back twice to kiss her, and call 
her his patient little mother. Boys frequently, with 
their rapid advancement of self-importance, grow 
ashamed of these tender little offices ; but if they could 
for once look from mother's ejyes, and see themselves as 
mother sees them now, their self-esteem might receive 
a most flattering unction. 

It really seemed very lonely now, without Charlie or 
Lawrence ; just the old people there alone, to spend 
their evenings in their quiet fashion. They were trying 
to feel contented, however, knowing that Lawrence 
was happy with his bride, and Charlie was visiting 
places he had always longed to see. 

An event transpired in Philip’s household which, for 
the time, drew forth the better part of his nature, and 
made him more of a man. It was the birth of a son, 
and was certainly an epoch in his prosy life of which 


A TRYING POSITION. 


49 

he always liked to think. A little brown-eyed baby, 
that stuck its chubby fists into its mouth and blinked 
comically at him. He was very proud and very fond 
of his baby, and in due time bestowed upon him the 
short, sweet name of Dayne. 

Mary was an unassuming, trusting little woman, and 
was still infatuated with her husband. To her he 
appeared the embodiment of cleverness and originality. 
His family admired her, and were given to self-conclu- 
sions that she was intellectually superior to her husband, 
therefore little Dayne was quite a monarch in the two 
households, as well as in Aunt Prue’s antique domicile. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A TRYING POSITION. 

A sorrowful woman said to me : 

“Come in and look on ovu* child.” 

I saw an angel at shut of day, 

And it never spoke — but smiled. 

I think of it in the city’s streets, 

I dream of it when I rest — 

The violet eyes, the waxen hands, ^ 

And the one white rose on the breast. 

— Thomas Baily Aldrich. 

Lawrence and Adele had been abroad a year, and, 
as the former desired to enter upon his professional 
career, they agreed to return, and, with M. D. affixed 
to his name, he hoped to add to his income as well as 
the health of the community. 

Woodside, a villa belonging to Hayne Homestead, 
.was prepared for their reception, and a cosy little nest 
it was, too. The house which, for unique design and 

4 


HAYNE HOME. 


50 

picturesque exterior, could not be surpassed, was of 
gray stone. 

The one floor rested on a foundation three feet high. 
There was a pretty porch around two sides of the house, 
and its pillars resembled living things, so wrapt and 
entwined were they in tangled ivy, honeysuckle, and 
roses. The other sides of the cottage were enigmatical 
arrangements of balconies, bow windows, and gables. 
White stone steps led up to the front door. The win- 
dows were draped in soft, creamy lace, that swayed 
prettily as the cool air sought to penetrate its meshes. 

They began life here in the sweetest fashion, and, 
notwithstanding the refusal of forgiveness Adele had 
received from her father, they were intensely happy. 
They laughed often at the remembrance'of their gloomy 
wedding-day, and felt that Lawrence had predicted cor- 
rectly regarding the silver-lined clouds, and that their 
life should be one long bright sumnier. They were in 
the very zenith of this summer dream ; had learned 
by daily communion to prize each other above every 
earthly gift ; and yet, amidst their connubial joy, just 
when earth seemed meet to clasp hands with Heaven, 
sorrow came and laid her branding-iron upon each 
brow. 

One evening Lawrence rode briskly homeward from 
his office in the village, a half mile away. At the end 
of the principal street stood a young girl, evidently 
watching for someone. As Lawrence drove past her, 
she threw up her hand in an imperative manner, as 
though demanding audience, at the same time timidly 
calling, “Doctor, please stop.” 

Checking the homeward-bound horse, he inquired : 
“Wish to see me, miss ? ” 


A TRYING POSITION 


51 

“Yes, sir,” she replied ; “there is a sick lady at the 
tavern who wants a doctor, and they ^ent me for you.” 

“Is she very sick — seriously so.?” 

“Yes, awful, and kind o’ crazy-like.” 

“Perhaps, then, I had best not go on home. Get up 
on the seat, and I will go back with you.” 

When she had clambered up beside him, he asked 
her to tell him how long the lady had been ill and what 
seemed to be the nature of her illness. 

“Well, you see, sir, as how no one don't know nothin’ 
about her. She was brought here this afternoon, from 
the train that was wrecked four miles north, and she 
just moans and cries, and takes on dretful-like, and she's 
got a baby.” 

“Oh ! how old .? ” 

“Not more ’n a year.^’ 

“Poor woman; has she not mentioned any friends 
to whom we could send .? ” 

“No, sir; oncet when she was to herself, pa asked 
her if she would like for us to send for somebody she 
knowed, and she said she didn’t have no friends, nor 
nobody would care if she died.” 

“ How unfortunate ! We must see what can be 
done.” 

When he drove up to the little hotel, and assisted his 
clumsy companion to alight, Philip, who had been sit- 
ting with his chair tilted back against a tree, came for- 
ward, and, in the most graceful manner, begged to be 
allowed to take care of the horse while Lawrence visited 
the sick woman. 

“Will it be any trouble to you, Phil ? ” 

“Not in the least.” 

So Lawrence was shown into the dingy, smoky parlor 


52 


HA YNE HOME. 


— a painful contrast to the cheery, inviting* room at 
Woodsicle. He felt considerable impatience at being 
kept waiting so long. Perhaps the woman would need 
but a few fever drops, or a mild opiate, and in that case 
this waiting seemed 'all the more irksome, for he was 
so impatient to get home to Adele, and rest. The few 
minutes seemed hours to him, before the girl announced 
the lady’s readiness to see him. He was struck speech- 
less with astonishment when the door swung back on 
its whining hinges, and exposed to his view the old- 
fashioned bed with its strangely-beautiful occupant. 

He had expected to see a poorly-clad, sallow-visaged 
woman with a puny, sickly child clinging to her skirts. 
He expected that, because she had said she was friend- 
less. 

Could it be possible that this young girl, perhaps not 
twenty years old, was friendless .? With a face as beauti- 
ful as Adele s, and shining masses of auburn hair lying 
unconfined upon her pillow ; with such eyes and teeth, 
could she have said there was no one who would care 
if she died .? On the back of the bed sat a baby, with 
eyes and hair like its mother’s, and it chattered, and 
scolded, and squeezed the little rubber doll which it 
held in its hand, blissfully oblivious of its strange sur- 
roundings. 

The girl who ushered him in said gruffly : 

“Here’s the doctor,’’ and slammed the door to signify 
her unwillingness to wait upon the aristocracy. 

The tinge of annoyance that swept over the stranger’s 
face at the announcement vanished the moment her 
eyes rested upon Lawrence’s face. He hastened to her 
side and spoke a few words of greeting to her, and 
asked her a few professional questions, all of which she 


A TRYING POSinON. 


53 

answered in a weak and tearful voice. When he had 
paused to consider whether or not he should tell her 
how seriously she was injured, she saved him the 
anxiety by saying : 

‘ ‘ I am very glad you have come, doctor, but you 
can do nothing for me. My injuries are internal, and 
necessarily fatal. I should not mind my going, were it 
not for my baby. Look at her, doctor ; is it not cruel 
to leave her here, all alone ? 

“But, surely, my dear lady, you have some friend, 
who will 

‘ ‘ Doctor, strange as it may seem, I forfeited ^he last 
friend my girlhood knew by running away with my 
handsome husband. Shall you care to hear } I have 
not spoken of it for so long that it will do me good. 
My father was always stern, and would not allow me 
to have the privileges that other girls have ; and when 
my husband came to a mountain resort where we were 
summering, we met accidentally, and fell desperately 
in love. He asked my father for me, and was repulsed ; 
so the very next night I ran away and married him. 
Papa did not follow us, but sent a message to us — we 
never knew how he found out where we were — telling 
us never to come in his sight, or he would kill us both. 
You don't know what a dreadful passion his is. He is 
a Frenchman, and is so unforgiving.” 

Her agitation prevented her from telling this readily. 
She stopped often to choke back the sobs that rose. 

Lawrence listened spell-bound. The circumstances 
reminded him so forcibly of his own wooing and mar- 
riage that when she ceased speaking he was amazed to 
find how deathly white she had grown, and what a 
painful effort she made to talk. 


54 


HA YNE HOME, 


“Madam, I am greatly interested in your story ; it 
is wonderfully pathetic and sweet, but you must not 
agitate yourself so. ” 

“Let me talk ; it may shorten my life a few poor 
hours ; but if you knew my suffering you would not 
chide me for hastening the end."' 

Another rush of tears and sobs. 

“But, my dear madam, you must think of your baby. 
You must save your strength for preparation for the 
future. ” 

“Oh, poor little Florence ! I had forgotten her; what 
shall I do ? Oh, tell me, what shall I do ! ” 

“Mamma!’' lisped the baby lips, and one little 
dimpled hand stole to her mother’s neck and rested 
there. The action seemed to frenzy the young mother. 

“Doctor, what will become of her? ” 

“You have not told me where your husband is, 
lady. ” 

“I don’t know. I will tell you that. He had never 
told me much about his family before we were married, 
and afterward we were so happy we did not talk of 
anything else but ourselves and our love. Our life was 
just like playing we were married, it was so full of joy 
and pretty sunlight. But, after Florence came, he began 
to talk more about his people, and seemed so anxious 
to have them see the baby and me. So one day I told 
him I would go with him to visit his people. You can 
imagine the horror I felt when he told me they were 
country people — actually lived in the country. He declared 
they were as good blood as my own family, and wanted 
to take me into the back-woods to spend my summer. 
I am sure you cannot blame me, doctor, can you, when 
I don’t like ignorance, nor illiterate people either, and 


A TRYING POSITION. 


55 


it was so cruel in my husband to deceive me so. He 
was so handsome — O Chad 1” she cried, after all I 
was to blame " 

“ Madam, I must beg you to be quiet ; this is doing 
you the greatest possible harm. '' 

“ Yes, I know ; but I am going out of his life forever, 
now. Poor Chad ! he was only too good for me, after 
all. I have — such a horror of — leaving my baby with 

this kind of people ” waving her waxen hand toward 

the bar-room, whence came the sound of clinking 
glasses, coarse rude jests and the nauseous odor pe- 
culiar to such places. “ What will become of her .? '' 

Lawrence was silent ; he could not tell her. 

“ Doctor,"' she implored, “do you think you could 
find my baby a home, among — among people of your 

class, not these ” with a gesture of disgust. “ Your 

face was, to me, like a light on a dark night, so different 
from the faces that have been about me to-day. Do 
you think, doctor, that you could find a home for Flor- 
ence ? ’’ 

How could he refuse a dying woman such a prayer — 
a home for her baby, so that she might die happier, 
knowing that her little helpless child would not be cast 
adrift upon the world ! How could he refuse her? 

“Yes ; I think I could find her a home.” 

“Among gentle folks ? ” she cried, eagerly. 

“Yes, among gentle folks.” 

“You have thought of a probable place for her ? You 
are not trying to make my death easier, by telling me ? ” 

“My dear madam, it is not such a difficult matter to 
find a home for such a beautiful child as yours, after we 
once know whose child she is. One must know 
that.” 


56 


HA YNE HOME. 


‘^Yes — yes. Doctor, under — my pillow — get— 
it ” 

She seemed suffocating ; he sprang to the door and 
called for assistance. In rushed the landlord, his wife, 
and two daughters. 

“ Is she wuss ’’ asked the little fat landlord. 

“Yes ; it will soon be over. Lady, will you kindly 
tell these good people what arrangements you wish 
made for your child ? ” 

She turned her large brown eyes upon Lawrence’s 
face, and said, solemnly : “ She is — yours to — do — as 

you think — best — the box . O Florence — I am going 

— Florence — Chad, for — give me, Cha ” 

The tender life had fluttered its last breath away. 
Weak and exhausted she called upon her loved ones, 
and died begging the forgiveness she had been too 
proud to ask. 

Lawrence took the little plush jewel-casket from under 
her pillow and put it in his pocket. Then he reached 
out his arms to the little prattling Florence, and said 
gently : 

“Come, Florence, will you not come to me, dear.?” 
but the pretty lips only said : “Mamma ! Mamma !” 

“Mamma is asleep, dear. Florence must not wake 
mamma.” 

“Mamma seep.?” whispered the baby-voice, and 
she settled back again, folding the dimpled hands in 
her lap, and signifying her intention of keeping quiet 
while mamma slept. 

The good-hearted Irishwoman went around to the 
other side of the bed where baby sat, and began in her 
brogue : ■ - 

“The blissed craythur ! Come along, darlint — ” but 


A TRYING POSITION, 


57 


Florence drew away, and the woman, nothing daunted, 
took the child in her arms and attempted to soothe her 
by methods so foreign to anything that little Florence 
had ever experienced that the result was a lusty shriek, 
and the little arms were outstretched, and her body 
inclined entreatingly toward Lawrence. It touched his 
heart. He took the baby and held her in his arms 
while he told them that he would send someone to 
assist in preparing the body for interment, and ordered 
that nothing should be done until such assistance 
arrived. 

The lady had carried a hand-bag, and it now hung 
upon a nail by the bed. Lawrence took it down and 
examined its contents. In a small purse was a roll of 
bills, and a railroad ticket from Memphis to Cincinnati. 
There was also a gold locket ; on one side of it was a 
monogram set in pearls and rubies. There was a lock 
of black hair, and a little folded paper which he did not 
open, knowing that four pair of eyes were curiously and 
jealously regarding him. He counted the money, and 
.said : 

“This will go toward her expenses, and I will be re- 
sponsible for her indebtedne'lss to you.’’ 

The women dressed the child in its pretty cloak and 
cap and set it up on the seat beside Lawrence. The 
child manifested not the least concern about leaving its 
mother, and during the preparation of its toilet, never 
once relinquished its hold upon Lawrence’s finger. 

As he drove along the pretty country road in the 
gathering twilight, wondering what strange freak of des- 
tiny had sent him there this afternoon ; wondering still 
more what he would do with the little child, now that 
he had taken it upon himself to provide it a home the 


HA YNE HOME. 


58 

innocent cause of all his wonder amused itself by flap- 
ping the end of the lines, and saying, “ Dep— hossy — 
dep ! ” 

Lawrence drove through the little grove to his mother’s. 
When he neared the gate he heard her— just inside the 
garden fence — singing softly to herself. Taking Flor- 
ence in his arms, he called, gently : ‘"Mother I ” 

She came toward him quickly, with surprise and pleas- 
ure in her countenance. 

‘ ‘ Lawrence what do you want ? Has anything hap- 
pened ? ” 

“Yes, mother, something has happened, but nothing 
to alarm you.” 

‘ ‘ What have you got there — a child } ” 

“Yes,” he replied, stealthily. “Is there anyone 
here.?” 

“ No ; father is gone to the city. I am alone, but for 
Jane.” 

Jane was the housekeeper at Wicksburr. 

“Here, give it to me. Where did you get it.? ” 

“I will carry her to the porch, mother. Then you 
may have her. The little dear has gone to sleep.” 

He carried her to the veranda and put her in his 
mother’s arms. 

“Oh,” she cried, wonderingly, “what a beautiful 
child ! Do tell me, Lawrence, whose she is ? ” 

“I don’t know, mother,” he began, slowly, while her 
eyes opened wider and wider. “Such a strange thing 
has happened, and I scarcely know how to tell it to you 
to make you believe me ; it will seem incredulous to you. 
The people who witnessed the circumstances smiled so 
diabolically, and treated me with such suspicious imper- 


A TRYING POSITION. 


59 

tinence, that I should not wonder if the whole town is 
ringing’ with taunts about me/" 

“Tell me what happened. I can trust you."" 

“Yes, mother, I know you would trust me; but, to 
make you sure of my honorable intentions, I pledge you, 
mother, by every jot of honor, that I never saw that 
woman till to-day, and I do not now even know her 
name."’ 

“One of your tender-hearted impulses,"" his mother 
said, fondly. 

And he hastened to explain the whole circumstance, 
from the meeting of the landlords daughter to the leav- 
ing of the hotel with the baby in his arms. She listened, 
deeply interested and as much affected, until he had con- 
cluded his narrative. Then she said, sadly : 

“ It is very strange, and very sad. And she did not 
even tell you her name ? "" 

“No. But I am sure she would have done so had 
she not died so suddenly. You see, I knew when I saw 
her first, and talked to her, that no medicines were need- 
ed for that poor, unhappy child — for, mother, she was 
not more than a child. I should not imagine her to 
have been over nineteen, and, oh, how beautiful 1 I 
think what won me over, mother, was the story of her 
life, and its resemblance to Ade]e"s. She was honest 
and true — I am sure of that mother. Her excitement 
hastened her death. "' 

“And what are you going to do with the little 
stranger ? "" 

“That is the question ! I have always come to you 
for advice, but won"t you let me advise you now ? "' 

“Certainly, child ; I will do whatever you think best."' 

“Then, dear, I would suggest that we let Jane take 


6o 


HA YNE HOME. 


care of this pretty stranger to-night, and you go down 
to the inn and superintend the preparations for the lady’s 
burial, and I will come after you; or, for that matter, 
I can remain there, too. ” 

“I will go.” She carried the sleeping child into the 
house, and, instructing Jane to watch her tenderly, and 
give her nourishment if she wakened, she proceeded -to 
don her garments for the ride to town. 

One of Dayne s baby-gowns was brought out and put 
on the drowsy innocent, and Jane put her to bed, and 
sat with her book, close beside the bed, and read. 

When they drove away from the house, Mrs. War- 
wich said : 

“Lawrence, you have not told Adele yet, I pre- 
sume ? ’’ 

“Oh, no, of course not,” he replied, earnestly. 

“ But you will tell her to-night .? ” 

“Why, no, mother, I do not think I ought to tell 
her.” 

“And why not.? ” she asked, uneasily. 

“Well, it would not be judicious. In the first place, 
Adele is given to worry and dread, and, if she knew of 
that child over there, she would not sleep one wink 
until she had visited the dead mother and the child as 
well.” 

“ I do not think she ought to have the care of the child, 
but I do think she ought to know about it,’^ continued 
the mother. He only replied : 

‘ ‘ I don’t think so. ” 

“But, my son, she will learn of it, sooner or later, 
and I am sure it would be better for you to tell it than 
for her to hear it from some other source.” 

‘No one is going to take the pains to tell it to her, 


A TRYING POSITION. 


6l 

and as soon as I find out the contents of this little box 
I will find baby a home, and tell Adele all about it” 

“ Secrecy sometimes ends so disastrously that I am 
sure you had best speak about it, so that Adele may 
know your motive was merely human kindness.’’ 

“My dear mother, to hear you talk one would im- 
agine that your life had been wrecked by a secret, 
whereas I think no woman ever lived more happily 
than you have lived in both instances.” 

“My marriages have both proven pleasant, and I 
may safely say that neither of my husbands ever left the 
house, or entered it, in an ill-humor toward me ; but I 
think our placid life is due to the candor and truthful- 
ness we have always practised ; and, remember Law- 
rence, if you set an example of secrecy, you must give 
her the privilege of following it.” 

The idea of Adele having a secret from him was so 
novel that he actually smiled, notwithstanding his moth- 
er’s seriousness. He could only think that his mother 
was over-anxious about their marriage felicity, and 
soothed his qualms of conscience by reflecting that it was 
only for Adele’s comfort and happiness that he kept this 
knowledge from her, and knowing that his mother’s life 
had been one of candor and truthfulness, and that she 
had an extreme horror of anything bordering on de- 
ception, he argued with himself that she was needlessly 
anxious. No one is better qualified to judge one true 
woman than another true woman, but Mrs. Warwich 
had ideas of her own regarding interference between 
young married people, and disliked to incur the stigma 
of managing mother-in-law. So she refrained from say- 
ing anything more to Lawrence ; but when they stop- 
ped at the pretty little Woodside Cottage, and he had 


62 


HA YNE HOME. 


gone in and made, as bethought, sufficient explanation, 
she called Adele, and, in the kindliest manner, bade her 
go to bed and rest, as their errand, being one of mercy, 
might detain them long. 

Adele did go to bed ; but not to sleep. She was not 
willing to acknowledge, even to herself, that she had 
any curiosity as to the purport of her husband’s errand. 
Yet his actions- were unusually reserved. He was in a 
hurry, to be sure, but he forgot that he had not come 
home at the usual hour for dinner, and that circum- 
stance alone was a disappointment to her, who had only 
him to make her happy. Usually he came home and 
greeted her cheerily, and if there were no particular news 
to relate, chatted gaily upon personal topics, because it 
was his nature to be cheery and talkative. Besides, to 
a woman who remains so closely confined at home as 
Adele did, the poorest news is sometimes refreshing. 
She spent the night alternately at the door and window, 
listening for the sound of old Dolly’s feet, and watching 
for her husband s cart through the bright moonlight. 

It was morning when he came, and, as eager as she 
was to learn the circumstances, she refrained from any 
inquiry, lest Lawrence should imagine her curiosity 
premature and feel displeased. So, with a patience that 
might have done credit to Griselda, she administered to 
his wants, and lovingly performed the little offices for 
his comfort which most young wives leave for the ser- 
vant’s execution. 

Lawrence was in a trying position. He had given 
his promise to a dying woman to provide for her child ; 
yet, even at this early hour, he realized the enormity of 
the undertaking. He was reclining upon a garden-seat, 
lazily puffing a cigar. Adele was occupied indoors. 


A TRYING POSITION. 63 

His mind had travelled over and around the events of 
yesterday often, yet until now he had not thought of 
the locket He drew from his pocket the purse and 
opened it Taking up the ring of hair, he looked upon 
it and sighed. Whose head had it been taken from 
It was beautiful jet-black hair, and as he held it, it curled 
around his finger and seemed alive. He laid it back 
gently and took up the locket The monogram was 
“C. H.” in pearls and rubies. He dreaded to open it 
Yet who could tell } — this locket might tell the story of 
Florence’s birth. It seemed an invasion of sacred ground, 
but he touched the spring and the lid flew back to re- 
veal only one picture — the face of the child-mother who 
lay dead at the inn. There had been something in the 
other side, for the gold band that held the glass in place 
was scarred and dented, and where the pretty chased lin- 
ing of the locket should be there was only a scratched 
piece of paper, which looked as though it might have been 
put in to keep an undersized picture from moving about. 
He put it away, but not before Adele had seen it as^she 
came from the door down the steps. He thrust it into 
the purse so hastily that he did not miss the little folded 
paper that fell from the purse to the ground. Adele saw 
the locket, and knew that he had been looking upon a 
face ; but she came and sat beside him, and trusted him. 
Could Lawrence have realized the pain, the patient pain 
his silence inflicted upon his doting wife, he would 
have put his arm about her and told her the truth, 
just as he had told it to his mother ; but he thought — 
ignorant soul!— that she would not notice anything 
amiss ; he thought he was behaving most naturally, 
and it would be kindest to keep her in ignorance of it 
until he could inform her of the arrangements he had 


64 


HA YNE HOME. 


made for the child, and thus relieve her of all care of its 
comfort. 

Some husbands have never realized how proud their 
wives are of husbandly confidence. Women are often 
regarded as mere pleasure-seekers, and the husband 
too often promotes indifference on the part of the wife 
by failing to show her that he regards her as something 
more than his housekeeper. She may be incompetent 
to advise, or counsel, but if she has been a good wife 
he owes her that consideration, just to show her that he 
trusts her, even as he expects her to trust him. 

The saddest mistake that Lawrence Hayne ever made 
was when he said : “ Adele, I may be detained again to- 
night, but do not worry. I shall be home as early as 
possible,” and went away without the customary kiss, 
and without telling her of the baby who sat upon his 
mother's knee and sobbed for “mamma.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE FIRST SEED OF DISTRUST. 

I shuddered and shut my eyes, 

And still could see and feel aware 
Some mystic presence waited there ; 

And staring with a dazed surprise, 

I saw a creature so divine 
That never subtle thought of mine 
May reproduce to iimer sight 
So fair a vision of delight. 

— James Whitcomb Riley, 

When Lawrence mounted the cart that morning, he 
did not notice that Adele had followed him to the gate, 
and stood leaning with her elbow on the post. He 


THE FIRST SEED OF DISTRUST 65 

drove off without looking back, until he turned into the 
wooded road that led to his mother’s home. Then an 
undefinable impulse prompted him to look back. Some- 
how the picture smote him, he did not know why, but 
her figure so dimly seen in the distance, her attitude 
and the intensity of her look suggested pathos, and 
made him sad. He touched his fingers to his lips and 
flung them out toward her, but she did not see it. She 
remained in the same picturesque attitude, but she had 
bent her eyes unconsciously upon the ground ; and that 
was the picture he carried in his heart for sixteen long, 
lonely years — the picture of a fair young wife, standing 
white-robed at a gate, her arms supporting her bust, 
while the sunlight fell lovingly upon her hair and the 
violets at her breast. 

When he had long been out of sight she went back to 
the house, and, flinging herself into an easy-chair, 
leaned back and closed her eyes, and, woman-like, fell 
to dreaming of the time when he had wooed and won 
her ; when every word was a caress, when every look 
was admiration ! They had something else to talk of 
now besides love and caresses ; but it did not take 
long to be kind ; besides Lawrence’s affection was not 
studied, it was spontaneous as his generosity, and why 
had he so suddenly thrown this cold pall over her 
heart ? He did not know it ; he was so engrossed with 
his new thoughts that he forgot to be kind to the girl, 
whose only fault was that she loved him too well. 

Lawrence had no sooner quitted the garden-seat than 
Philip’s cane was thrust through the hedge, and dexter- 
ously sent after the note which Lawrence had let fall, 
and dragged with difficulty to within easy reach of his 
hand. Screened by the thick foliage of the hedge 


66 


HA YNE HOME. 


which formed a fence between the garden and Mill 
Creek, he had watched Lawrence examine the locket 
and the hair, and had almost shouted for joy when the 
little bit of paper fluttered to the ground ; though he 
never dreamed that it would be his good fortune to see 
its contents. 

He scarcely breathed until Adele .left the seat and 
walked to the gate. He had at last possessed himself 
of the paper, which he found to be a telegram, and this 
is what he read : 

“ Clara : Sent you money-order to-day. Will meet 
you Thursday. ' ‘ Lawrence. ’’ 

With mouth wide open, and eyes dilated, he read it 
again and again ; he took off his hat and mopped his 
brow and read it over ; his hands trembled, and his ears 
had hideous noises in them, and still he held that 
paper I 

When he had found his voice, he exclaimed, in a 
whisper : 

“Jupiter and Mars ! He that ? He is worse than I 
am.’' He folded the paper and threw it out upon the 
grass beside the rustic bench. After Adele had gone 
to the porch, he got up and sprang agilely over the 
hedge and sauntered toward the house. She did not 
hear him, until he stood beside her and said, “Adele ! ” 

She opened her eyes and blushed scarlet. Her mind 
was so harrowed with disappointment, that it seemed 
to her, coming from that unhappy reverie, that he had 
divined her thoughts, and knew that she was sad. She 
reached out her hands to him and greeted liim warmly 
— the man she had trusted next to her husband, the 
man she would trust to their bitter sorrow 


THE FIRST SEED OF DISTRUST 


67 

“You are welcome, Philip,’' she said, “though I am 
hopelessly dull." 

“ So Then I shall certainly have the honor of see- 
ing you in a new role.” 

“Did Mary not accompany you in your walk this 
morning ; she usually does, does she not } ” 

“Yes; she was with me this morning, but stopped 
in at mother's while I sauntered around this way, though 
I did not expect to come in, in my hunting-jacket." 

“ It is especially becoming to you, Philip. Besides, 
you need not make any excuses to me^ you know." 

“You are very kind. I must confess I cared more 
for keeping out of the way of your guest than yourself, 
Adele." 

“My guest? Why Philip, I have no guest,” she said, 
wonderingly. 

“No guest?" he cried, looking proverbially cut. 
“Then who is it that has been riding around with Loll 
for a couple of days ? " 

“I'm sure I don't know. You know the town peo- 
ple as well as I do.’^ 

“It wasn't any one from town. She looked " 

“ Was it a lady she asked, hastily. “But, I beg 
your pardon ; what were you saying ? ” 

“I was going to say she looked like Miss Ray that 
visited here a long time ago. Let me see, I forget 
whether you were at home then or not. ” 

“No,” Adele answered, quietly, “I was not at 
home.” 

“She and Loll are great friends,” Philip said, as he 
thoughtlessly switched the leaves of the shivering ivy 
that clung to the trellis. 

“When did you see Ihem, Philip ? " 


68 


HAYNE HOME. 


“Well, I saw them last night ” 

“Oh no, Phil, that was his mother,'' Adele said, with 
a mischievous laugh. 

“No, no; I saw him late in the evening with his 
mother, but this other was just before dark. She had 
brown hair and eyes, and was rather petite." 

Adele would not knowingly allow her visitor to see 
that he had caused her a pang of jealousy. She felt 
sure that his thoughtless words were well meant, and 
that it would pain him to know that unwittingly he had 
disturbed her peace of mind, so she put on her brightest 
smile, and said : 

“I am sure I cannot conjecture who he has been 
driving out with ; some one who has called upon him 
for aid, probably.'^ 

“Yes, yes; I dare say ; one cannot keep pace with 
a physician’s habits. I am so glad that Loll is getting 
on so well ; he has a fine practice.” 

“Yes, he has indeed. We are very happy here, 
notwithstanding our portentous wedding day.” But 
she sighed when she remembered that some other fair 
young girl had sat beside him in the cart — her cart — 
that Lawrence’s father had given her on her birthday. 
She remembered, too, the locket ! But that picture she 
shut out of her mind ; it was enough to remember that 
her husband had gone away without a good-by, or a 
kiss, that she could think of and forget her sorrow for 
the locket and the petite unknown ; but she could trust 
him implititly, and, perhaps, some day when he chose 
to tell her the circumstances regarding these strange 
things, she would be glad that she had trusted him. 
Her simple faith was beautiful ! 


THE FIRST SEED OF DISTRUST 69 

Philip having remained until noon, arose to go, 
saying ; 

“ You have not taken one stitch in your embroidery, 
nor read one line of your ‘Don Quixote,' ypu have 
sacrificed your time entertaining me," and he displayed 
his handsome teeth as he smiled upon her, just as he 
had smiled years ago when his sole ambition was to 
displace Lawrence in her affections. 

‘ ‘ I don’t look much like a victim of martyrdom 
do I .? ” 

“You would never show what you feel if you be- 
lieved it would make some one uncomfortable, Adele." 

They looked down the walk and saw Dick Turner 
coming towards them, with an anxious look in his 
usually good-humored countenance. 

“Why, there is Dick; I wonder if anything is 
wrong. ” 

“Oh, no, doubtless he is coming to see me," replied 
Philip. 

When Dick had come to the bottom of the steps he 
took off his hat to Adele, and said softly : 

“Philip, may I speak to you alone Excuse me, 
Mrs. Hayne, it is imperative." 

Philip bade Adele a hasty good-morning, and walked 
away with Dick, and Adele went into the house. 

When they were away from the house, Philip said 
crossly. 

“Well, now, what.'^" 

“Philip, such a terrible thing has happened. Law- 
rence has been 'most killed." 

‘ ‘ Lawrence hurt ? Where is he ? " Philip queried, 
breathlessly. 

“At his mother's — " 


70 


NA YNE HOME, 


“How did it happen; tell me all about it?” Philip 
said, eagerly. 

“Why, you see that, instead of going direct to his 
office this morning, Lawrence went around to his 
mother’s, and stopped about an hour. He got into 
the cart and started off just as Jones’ horse came dash- 
ing down the road dragging the front wheels of the 
spring wagon. I don’t know whether Loll’s horse 
shied and upset the cart down the bank, or the other 
horse ran into the cart and upset it, but when Cronie 
and Mrs. Warwich got to Lawrence he was lying in 
the ditch with the cart on top of him, and Dolly lying 
with her hoof against his head. He was bleeding and 
unconscious, and is so still.” 

“ He is still unconscious ? ” 

“Yes ; and Dr. Maltby says he is sure he is injured 
internally, but it is impossible to find out much. 
One leg is broken, and there is a deep gash on his 
head.” 

‘ ‘ Heavens ! this is terrible ! You didn’t come over to 
tell Adele, did you ? It would shock her to death.” 

“That is why I called you away. I thought per- 
haps, you could advise me. His mother suggested 
that we tell her he had been suddenly called away and 
had not time to advise her ; they thought they might 
keep her in ig — ” 

Philip interrupted him, crossly ; “Oh, no, that won’t 
do. Dogs couldn’t drive him out of town without 
sending her some word, and she knows it. ” Dick made 
no reply, which gave Philip ample time for reflection ; 
the result was his face illumined, which changed 
his whole aspect. He hastened to add : “But, say, 
after all the suggestion is a good one. But how shall 


THE FIRST SEED OF DISTRUST. 


71 

we accomplish the object of your visit? Can you tell 
her, Dick, without wincing ? 

“ I don’t know ; I think I can. I never told a lie 
but once, and then I was caught in it before I had it 
half told, but this is such a different matter ; it is for her 
sake. I guess I can tell it. Oh, Fate ! the girl is at the 
window watching us with a face as white as death. 
She suspects something, sure. You had better tell it. 
Philip ; she was always good to me ; you may tell it, 
/would weaken sure.” 

Adele had been watching them from her window, 
and, as Dick had said, suspected some wrong. Her 
mind being disturbed any way, she imagined more 
readily that the colloquy concerned herself. 

Not waiting to be summoned, she went down the 
steps and stood beside them. She laid her hand on 
Philip’s arm, and said, seriously : 

“I am sure, Phil, you are speaking of me. Some- 
thing has happened! Tell it to me — quick. ” 

/‘Well, Adele, don’t agitate yourself; nothing has 
happened that need frighten you, but it will disappoint 
you.” 

“Tell me what it is,” she rejoined, growing whiter 
still. 

“You will think we are two villains to frighten you 
so. Dick has come with a message from Lawrence, to 
say he was suddenly called away, and would be gone 
two weeks.” 

‘ ‘ Lawrence gone away P Where to ? 

“To Mobile,” he replied coolly. 

Miss Ray lived in Mobile. 

“But why — did he not ” 


72 


HA YNE HOME. 


“ He only had time to catch the train. I dare say 
you will hear from him directly. ” 

“Yes, I am sure I shall hear from him immediately, 
but I am so sorry. I wish he had bade me good-by. '' 

The pallor had given place to a flush in her cheeks. 
She looked very beautiful, standing on the steps with 
the vines and roses all about her ; her white dress sway- 
ing gently in the air, and in her hand a large red rose. 
Dick said, “ Good-morning,” hastily, and promised to 
bring her any word as soon as it arrived ; then made 
a hasty exit. 

‘ ‘ Don’t fret about it, Adele ; it was horribly careless 
in him not ” 

“You have just said that he had only time to catch 
the train,” she retorted, in her husband’s defense. 

“ Well, so he had. We must be lenient with the poor 
fellow. I do not doubt he regretted to leave so sudden- 
ly. Well,” — taking out his watch — “ I must be going 
on. Mary has been at home an hour, I suspect.” 

“ Wait until I get my hat, I will walk through the 
garden with you. I feel that I should suffocate in- 
doors. ” 

She soon came out with a pretty hat trimmed in mull 
and white roses. She looked so young and fair, walk- 
ing at his side, drawing on her white silk gloves, that 
for a moment he wished he had not happened here this 
fatal morning and had spared himself that false position. 

He was watching her out of the corner of his eye, 
when she suddenly exclaimed : 

“ Dear, dear ! How shall I pass the hours till Law- 
rence comes back ? ” 

Mary and I will do all we can to help you to con- 
sume time.” 


THE FIRST SEED OF DISTRUST. 


73 


“ Have you ever been away from Mary long? ” 

“ I^ever over a day.” 

“ Then you do not wonder that this separation dis- 
turbs me ? It is our first.” 

‘‘ I wish it might be your last.” 

“ Oh, how kind,” she exclaimed, laughingly. 

“ What would you do, Adele, if Lawrence did not 
come back at all ? ” 

She uttered a little horrified shriek, and cried : ^ 

“ Oh, Phil, don’t drag such hideous spectres before 
my imagination. ” 

“ Well, such things have happened, you know.” 

Certainly ; but could not happen to me. Why, I 
cannot, even for curiosity, imagine such a thing. It 
would be utterly impossible for me to live without Law- 
rence, though, of course I should have to drag out 
some kind of an existence, like other people do after 
their friends leave them. ” But the tone of her voice 
and the far-off look in her eyes told him how worse 
than death her life would be. They sat down upon the 
seat that Lawrence had occupied. Directly Adele’s eyes 
caught the little fluttering paper on the ground at her 
feet, she picked it up, but, to Philip’s disappointment, 
did not open it. Whether she was unconscious of hav- 
ing a paper in her hands, or felt an instinctive reticence 
about opening it in his presence, Philip could not 
determine : but certain it was she did not deign to 
notice it otherwise than to wrap it round and round her 
finger, then smooth it out, and fold it over and over 
again, until it looked like a little ball, and otherwise 
abuse it, until her companion despaired of the slight 
tracery being legible after having sustained this damag- 
ing process. 


74 


HAYNE HOME. 


They chatted unceasingly, Philip making a broad pre- 
tense of an attempt at driving off her depression, and 
she, poor girl, assuming a levity she did not feel, in 
order that he might not see the pain she felt at the news 
he had told her, following so closely upon the stab the 
locket, the petite unknown, and her husband’s unusual 
indifference had given her. Thus each was trying to 
impress the other falsely ; yet hers was prompted by a 
sweet womanly impulse of trying to soothe the ills of 
another, while the wound gnaws deeper and deeper in 
her own heart 

When Philip had risen again, to take his departure, 
she said : 

Phil, do you think Lawrence’s errand could be con- 
nected with the visit he and his mother made last 
night ? ” 

Philip looked the confusion he did not feel, and 
answered, hastily : ‘ ‘ Why, who told you about that 

visit ? ” 

“ He stopped to tell me that he had to go out, but did 
not say where. I never evince any curiosity in his 
professional affairs, and all I know is what he vol- 
untarily tells me. I presume this case was danger- 
ous, and he thought it would annoy me. Of course, I 
shall hear all about it when he comes home ; but I just 
wonder if his business relates to that ? ” 

“ Doubtless. Oh, I don’t know, either; perhaps not 
at all. At any rate,” he began, cautiously, “I would 
not seem curious about it A husband, as a general 
thing, don’t admire curiosity in his wife ; and if he 
desires to tell you anything he will do it of his own free 
will, and if he don t choose to tell you, you will save 
him the mortification of shirking the truth, and save 


A RECONCILIATION. 


75 

yourself some unhappiness, perhaps, by appearing to 
notice nothing/’ 

He had planted the first seed of distrust but she did 
not know it, so she thanked hirriy and was grateful for his* 
words. Then he bade her good-bye, and went away. 

She indifferently spread open before her the tele- 
gram, and read : 

“ Clara : Sent you money-order to-day. Will meet 
you Thursday. Lawrence.” 


CHAPTER VHI. 

A RECONCILIATION. 

What was love then ? Not calm, not secure — scarcely kind, 

But in one, all intensest emotions combined ; 

Life and death, pain and rapture, the infinite sense 
Of something immortal, unknown and immense ! 

Thus doubting her way, through the dark, the unknown, 

The immeasurable did she wander alone. 

With the hush of night’s infinite silence outspread 
O’er the height of night’s infinite heaven overhead. 

— Owen Meredith. 

Philip went direct to Wicksburr from Woodside, a dis- 
tance of two miles through the woods. Arriving there, 
he went immediately to the cool, airy chamber where 
Lawrence lay, and learned that Dick’s report was true 
in all its hideousness. Lawrence might have been dead 
for any sign of life he gave ; so still and white, with the 
bands of lint about his head, and his shapely hands 
lying motionless on the x:overlet. 

“ Doctor, do you think he is in much danger.?” 


76 


HA YNE HOME, 


Mr. Warwich/" spoke the doctor, cautiously, “ I 
apprehend the worst possible result if this unconscious 
state continues much longer ; but I have not thought it 
•best to admit my fears to the family yet 

“ Then he cannot possibly be taken home soon } ” 

“ I cannot allow him to be disturbed for a fortnight, 
at least His wife will have to come here ; I cannot 
let him go to her.’' 

“Oh, but we don’t want Adele to know it She 
thinks he is away, and we are trying to keep her in 
ignorance of it” 

“ Very good,” said the doctor, rising. “ I am going 
out to mix this for an application. You will be kind 
enough to call me if he stirs ever so slightly.” 

When the doctor left the room, Philip sat regarding 
his step-brother, half-sadly and' half-jnaliciously. It 
seemed a pity to see such a handsome, sturdy physique 
maimed and helpless. Yet he could not feel the sym- 
pathy for him that he ought to have felt. He looked 
about him, at the soft cool draperies, the neat, tidy 
appointments, and remembered that this was the room 
his father had had remodeled and refitted for Lawrence’s 
mother years before. How angry he was then ! And 
somehow, as he sat and mused over that unhappy time 
of long ago, he got angry again and raved inwardly, 
and chafed at the thought that, had it not been for this 
boy’s mother, he would have had undisputed right to 
anticipate the whole of the Wicksburr estate, and even 
now he dreaded to contemplate his punishment if his 
father ever learned of the trick he had played Lawrence 
on that dark wedding morn. 

He looked about him, and on ^ chair near the bed 
hung Lawrence’s vest, bespattered with mud and blood, 


A RECONCILIATION-, 


77 


and on another chair hung his coat. Without further 
thought of the deception he was practising, in this 
poor, helpless presence, he seized the vest and ran- 
sacked the pockets. There was the little purse found 
in the dead woman’s shopping bag. Then he explored 
the pockets of the coat, and, to his amazement and 
delight, he found the little plush box that Lawrence had 
taken from under the dead woman’s pillow. Philip 
was not aware of any such box having been in Law- 
rence’s possession, but it did not take him long to con- 
clude that it had belonged to the unknown woman, and 
it might, after all, be of service to him. Lawrence had 
not examined the contents of the box. He had had no 
opportunity to do so before his misfortune, and it was 
many long years after that he was allowed to know the 
contents of the little casket which had been given into 
his keeping. 

The physician returned, and found Philip just where 
he had left him, and did not fail to observe and appre- 
ciate the sadness and regret which the former essayed 
to depict upon his countenance. 

Philip could do nothing, so he went into his mother’s 
room, and begged her to command him if he could be 
of any service. She was grieved over her boy’s mis- 
fortune, and it was soothing to speak about him. Yet 
Philip was eager to get away. The papers in that little 
box were burning his pocket. He must get away and 
examine them, and know the secret that Lawrence 
longed to know. 

Ah, he was happy now ! He walked out of the house 
and passed down the road, dreaming day-dreams of 
victory. 

He went to his own home, and, meeting Cronie in 


HAYNE HOME. 


78 

the garden, ordered his carriage brought around imme- 
diately, then went indoors, and acquainted his wife 
with the accident, and explained to her that Adele must 
not know of it He asked her to get ready immediately 
and go with him over to Adele. ‘‘We must be her 
companions, Mary,’’ he said, “because mother cannot 
come, and some one must be with her always, to prevent 
anyone from telling it ” 

“Phil,” she answered, gently, “I do not think this 
deception is right It is certainly unjust to Adele, and 
cannot do any one any advantage.” 

“Why, no, dear, it is not unjust. As soon as Law- 
rence is out of proximate danger we will tell her ; then 
she can go to him. ” 

“Ah, Phil, think how she will feel when she does 
find it out, knowing that all this time he is ill and suf- 
fering, she is sitting cool and comfortable at home 
waiting for a letter. Indeed, Phil, I hate to be a party 
to the deception, for if I were in her place I could 
never forgive them for keeping me away from you.” 

She leaned over and kissed his face. Perhaps the act 
smote his conscience, for he said, rather unwillingly : 
“Well, now, dear, don’t worry over other people’s 
troubles. Perhaps it would be better, after all, to tell 
her ; so, if we find a good opportunity, we will soften 
it down and tell her.” Mary was delighted, and ran 
away to dress, saying to herself : “ Mary, my girl, we 
will make an opportunity to tell her. She shall have 
the satisfaction of at least sitting by her boy, and that 
is better than the abominable trick of deceiving her. 
They must think the girl is wax ; that she will melt at 
the first hot breath.” 

Thus she mused, anxious and eager to help the girl 


A J^ECONCILIATIOAT. 


79 

who had always been so kind to her. And while Philip 
teases and banters the mischievous Dayne, Mary con- 
cocts plans to inform Adele that she must change her 
residence. 

They drove up to the gate at the side of the yard. 
Supposing, of course, they would find Adele on the 
veranda, as she was not to be seen in the garden, they 
hastened around to that side of the house ; but she was 
not there. They went into the hall, and met Julia, who 
was the daughter of the old negro, Nettie, who had been 
in Frederic Moore’s service for twenty years. Julia had 
been a nurse-girl for a wealthy family in the neighbor- 
hood at the time of Adele’s marriage. When the latter 
returned from Italy, Julia expressed her anxiety to serve 
Adele in the capacity of housekeeper, and was imme- 
diately installed. 

“Julia, where is your mistress?” asked Mary, pleas- 
antly. 

‘ ' O Missus Warruck, missus am done got sick. ” 
And Julia rolled her eyes around in her solemnity, and 
looked unhappy. 

“ Is Adele sick ? Why, Julia, what caused it ? She is 
not so very sick, is she ? ” 

“ Powerful. Gittin wuss an’ ‘wuss. Don’t know 
nufhn.” 

“ Don’t know anything ? Why, good gracious’, Julia, 
who is here beside you ? ” Mary said, affrightedly. 

“Now, Missus Warruck, dis chile knows dat you 
won’ go telling uv it. Ole Massa Moore ud done break 
marm’s hed ef he knowed dat she ben heah dis time, 
shuh.” 

“ Is Nettie here ? That is well. But take me to 
Adele’s room right away. Phil, you may keep Dayne 


8o 


HAYNE HOME. 


here. I shall try to do something for Adele, poor 
girl.’’ 

Julia led the way into the chamber, in the south 
wing. There lay Adele, white and still as death. Her 
breathing was scarcely perceptible. Her lips were 
only a bluish line across her face. Nettie was bending 
over her, moistening her lips, and trying to force be- 
tween them a few drops of the decoction which she 
dipped with a medicine spoon from a glass in her hand, 
murmuring all the time : ‘‘My poah chile ; dey don’ 
kitch dis hyar chile leaben you to die, shuh nuff, all 
’lone. Ole Mars Moore ain’t gwine ter git dis ole brack 
hed outen dis hyar doah ’thout you, honey. ” 

“ Nettie,” said Mary, “have you sent for a physician .? 
We must have some help — oh, Adele, you sweet girl, 
what is it — oh, horror, isn’t she white .? Nettie, we must 
have someone, quick,” Mary said, in broken sentences 
and long breaths. 

They sent for Philip, and Ipund him holding audience 
with Julia. The latter went out of the room when Net- 
tie entered, and said that “ Missus Warruck dreffel scairt, 
and sez fer ’im to go fer de doctor. ” 

He took up his hat and bounded down the steps, 
and entered his carriage, at the same time ordering his 
man to drive to Dr. Pearson, fast as possible. They soon 
returned with the physician, and everything that could 
be done was done ineffectually. She did not change, 
save once ; she turned her head and moaned, and mur- 
mured “ papa.” 

Dr. Pearson shook his head, and looked discouraged. 
“This is queer business,” he said. “Something must 
be done, and that quickly. Let me make a suggestion. 
Someone go for Mr. Moore. . I believe his presence 


A RECONCILIATION. 


8l 


would create a change, at least. This is only a stupor, 
and perhaps his voice, as she has not heard it for so 
long, may have a good effect. ” 

“But, doctor, he would not come. Of that I am sure,’' 
Mary said, doubtfully. 

‘ ‘ I don’t know about that. He is an eccentric old 
fellow, but I rather think he will come. Someone go. 
Great Heaven ! we must try everything, whether it is 
agreeable or not, ” he said, impatiently. 

I will go, if Julia will go with me. It would be no 
use for me to go alone, for he would shut the door in 
my face; but, after Julia excites his curiosity, I think 
we may safely count upon a hearing, ” Philip suggested, 
and they all agreed. 

He and Julia passed out of the house into the yard, 
when Philip said : “Julia, where did your mistress be- 
come ill .f* ” 

“ In de garden, Massa Warruck.” 

‘ ‘ Do you know what produced her illness .? It was not 
the heat, was it } ” 

“ Lawd no. Ef heat ud kill dat chile, she udben dead 
long nuff ago, shuh.” 

“Did she have a fright, or read anything that might 
have produced unconsciousness .? ” 

“ Massa Warruck, dis chile knows dat you’s huhfrien’, 
an’ I’se gwine' ter tell you jest how I foun’ ’er. When 
dinna wuz ’bout cooked to a cinda, waiting on Mars 
Hayne, I went outen de gardun fer her, and dar, 
on dat bench, I seed Miss Hayne a-settin, an’ I jest 
went up to her, an’ sez, ‘Miss Hayne,’ an’ she neber 
budged ; an’ I sez, ‘dinna am spilt,’ an’ she jest neber 
budged agin, so I tooked her han’ an’ raised it up, an’ it 
jest fell like a stun ; an’ I fro wed watah, an’ klone, an’ 


82 


HA YNE HOME. 


eberyting, but dis chile could no’ help her, an’ I runned 
arter marm, an den you uns cummed.” 

“But, Julia, did you not find a paper, or anything, 
that could have caused her fain ting-spell ? Something 
must have caused it.” 

“Yaas, Massa Warruck. I foun’ dis,” and Julia -went 
down among the folds of her brown calico dress, and 
fumbled with both hands until she had possessed herself 
of the little paper, which she had hastily thrust into her 
pocket. 

She handed it to Philip, who took it and exclaimed, 
“And this did it ! Where did you find this, Julia ? ” 

“Squashed up like dat,” she said, crushing a maple 
leaf in the black hand to illustrate it. 

“Well, Julia, do you think you could keep a secret ?” 

“Lawd, yaas ; say I cud.” 

“ Well, then, you go to Mr. Moore and take a box that 
I shall give you, and tell him that the contents of that 
box were found in Lawrence’s pockets, and tell him how 
that note was found crushed in Adele’s hand. If you 
will do this, Julia, and do it right, I will pay you well 
for it.” 

“ Pay me money ? ” 

“Yes, money, lots of it.” 

“Shuh nuff money, no foolin’ now.? ” 

“Certainly, sure enough money. But, Julia, money 
wouldn’t save your neck, if you ever tell it.” 

“Tell what?” 

“Why, that I hired you to do it.” 

“You’ll pay me lots o’ shuh nuff munny. ” 

“Yes, lots of it.” 

“ Gib me de box. I keep dat sekrut fer munny,” and 
she stretched out her black hand for the box 


A RECONCILIATION'. 83 

‘^Wait till we get out of sight of the house. I want 
to look over some things, first.’' 

When they reached the end of the lane, they paused, 
and he examined the fastening of the little casket. 
Touching a spring, the lid flew back and revealed a lot 
of papers, some letters and a picture. He opened the 
paper nearest the top ; running his eyes over it, he ut- 
tered an ejaculation of astonishment, and let the box 
with all its treasures fall to the ground. 

Good Lawd, Massa Warruck ; is anything in dar 
’live ” 

‘‘No; but Heavens, Julia, I have discovered some- 
thing, oh, oh ! ” Julia regarded him in an amazed stare, 
while he stooped and gathered up the papers, which 
threatened to blow away with every gust of air. When 
he came to the picture, he sat down upon the ground 
and indulged in a series of incoherent mutterings that 
Julia could not understand. “Well, Julia, I’ll just send 
this picture and this paper and locket ; that will suf- 
fice. ” 

He tied them together, wrapped a paper around them, 
and handed them to J ulia, saying : 

“ Now, Julia, tell him that his daughter is dangerous- 
ly ill, and the doctor thinks hs can bring her to con- 
sciousness ; tell him she is in deep trouble ; and for him 
to come without fail.” 

Julia marched off toward the Moore residence, and, 
reaching the house, rang the bell violently. There being 
no one there but the old gentleman he was obliged to 
answer the summons himself. No sooner had he rec- 
ognized Julia than he tried to shut the door, but she, 
with the quickness of a cat, sprang in the doorway, and 
stood like a postilion, against the jamb. 


84 


HA YNE HOME, 


‘'What do you want here? Frederic Moore thun- 
dered in her ears. 

“Ifs you I want, Massa Moah. Miss Adele, she 
’bout to die, and de doctah sez dat you kin ’stoah huh to 
life ef you jest come ’long, hurry. ” He hesitated before 
answering : 

“ What is the matter with your mistress .? ” 

“I foun’ huh on de gar dun bench, en’sens’bul, 
an’ dis hyar papah waz a-gwabbed jest like dat, in huh 
hand.” 

He paid no attention to the paper. 

“Where is her husband ? ” 

“ He dun gone off.” 

“Gone off? Whereto?” The old man cried, be- 
traying his interest, which he tried hard to hide. 

“ Dunno, I jest heerd ’em say as he’d gone off.” 

“Well, go back and attend to your mistress ; you 
can get on without me,” and motioned her out of the 
door. A card-receiver stood near the door ; she leaned 
forward and laid the parcel there. She went back to 
where she had left Philip ; he was waiting for her, 
smoking a cigarette. 

“What success?” he asked. 

“No s’cess a-tall, he jest mawchedme outen de doah.” 

“What did you do with the parcel?” 

‘ ‘ Laid it on the table an’ lit out. ” 

Philip muttered, and started up. Re-entering the 
house, he informed them of their fruitless errand, and 
was informed in return that Adele had regained her 
reason, and was in a fair way to recover, if they could 
only prevent excitement. The doctor had gone away 
with minutest directions regarding the medicines he 
had left 


A RECONCILIATION, 


85 

Towards evening, Philip and Mary returned home ; 
they could do nothing, as the doctor had recommended 
absolute quiet Nettie refused to go. Adele begged of 
her to return, knowing how angry her father would be 
at this breach of obedience, but Nettie was obdurate, 
and would not go. 

In the evening they propped Adele up on a pile of 
pillows, and drew her bed around to the window, where 
the scented air from off the dew-laden flowers fanned 
her cheeks and cooled her brow. 

She might have sat thus a half-hour, when footsteps 
arrested her attention, and when she turned, she beheld 
— her father ! 

Father I” she exclaimed, with ill-concealed fear. 

“Adele,’' he began, falteringly, “do you know why 
I have come ? ” 

“ I — I am glad that you have come ; but I — I — don’t 
know ” 

“No; you do not know what brings me here. I 
have come, my child, to tell you that I see my own 
wrongs toward you ; it cost me an effort, Della, to 
come ; you know that ? ’’ 

“Yes, I know it, papa — ’’but she could go no 
farther ; her voice faltered, and then she dropped her 
head in her hands and sobbed. This gave her father 
opportunity and courage. With a volubility that no 
one had ever before known him to display, he explained 
his reason for coming. He had said it cost him an 
effort to come ; but words could not describe the fight 
he had had with his pride, before impulse got the mas- 
tery. He had examined the papers, and, amid curses, 
threats, and heart-broken ejaculations, he had resolved 


HA YNE HOME. 


86 

to do justice to the dead wife, and grant forgiveness to 
the living daughter. 

“ Don’t cry, Della ; you are unhappy to-night, my 
child ; I know what has happened, and I will spare 
you all needless pain ; but Adele, I have come to take 

you away 

“ From Lawre7ice 

“Yes, from Lawrence ; would you stay with a 
'' Don’ iy you are angry ; don’t speak ill of him. We 
don’t know that he has done a wrong, we only have 
that little paper ; it may be false or it may be a mis- 
take ; we cannot judge him by that, pa^a. When she 
finished speaking, after the most noble effort at calm- 
ness, she was panting breathlessly, and lines of pain 
were about her mouth. She might have been over- 
come by an act of her husband’s, but it did not signify 
that she would calmly listen to any comments from 
someone else, even though that someone be her old, 
broken-down father. 

“ I would wait, Adele, and see Lawrence,” he winced 
and tightened his lips as he uttered the name, “had I 
no other proof of his guilt than that paper ; but I have 
two other proofs, Adele, and if you were able to bear 
a shock, I would show them to you ; but we will wait 
until you are better ; then I will prove to you that I am 
right ; besides, I want to make a visit before I do any- 
thing rash. Will you promise me, Della, that if these 
accusations are true you will come back to me ? ” 
“Papa,” she said, sadly, taking his hand, “it is 
loyal and true in you to forgive my marriage, that was 
so hateful to you ; I appreciate your goodness in 
coming to me now, when I am in trouble, but, papa, 
you do not realize what a gigantic thing you are asking 


A RECONCILIATION. 


87 

me to do ; what a sacrifice you are asking me to make ; 
tearing a wife from her husband is a fearful thing, 
papa ; a fearful thing ! I am sure that if Lawrence is 
guilty of this deceit, he will abandon it, when he knows 
how sincerely I deplore it ; he will give it up when he 
knows how nearly I have died from it” 

“ Give it up, Adele? You know so little about men 
and their ways. Instead of giving it up, he would be 
spurred on by your sorrow ; he might not wish to 
grieve you, but the very thought that he was doing you 
an injury would make it seem impossible for him to 
further his wishes, and the denial would make them 
more tempting ; besides, Adele, it has come to such a 

pass that I am afraid he dare not break off with '' 

“ I don’t understand you, papa.” 

“ No, you do not understand me, because you know 
of nothing but this little paper. I know of something 
else.” 

She would not ask him what it meant, but she would 
have given much to know. 

Daughter, I will make one more proposition. I 
have a suspicion of something having occurred in town 
last night, and I am going down to the inn to learn 
what it was. I heard a bystander speak sneeringly of 
Hayne’s fair protegde ; I will go and see what it 
meant ; if I find that this is a mistake, and that your 
husband is not dishonorably implicated, I will come to 
you and tell you so, and, in reparation for this suspicion, 
and my readiness to believe these papers, I will offer 
my friendship and good-will to your husband, and 
shall do all in my power to promote your prosperity.” 

‘‘ Oh, papa, you will forgi-ve Lawrence.?" she cried, 
eagerly. 


88 


HA YNE HOME, 


“ Only on the condition I have named. On the other 
hand, if I am still convinced of his fraud, I will take 
you away with me — you start, Adele, I know I pain 
you, but it is best my child ; it is best.” 

“ Papa, I would rather bare my breast, and feel the 
knife thrust into my heart, than to live here in this at- 
mosphere, and hear his name ; perhaps see his face and 
know that he is a stranger to me. Why, papa, you can- 
not understand.” 

“ No, I cannot clearly understand, but I am sure, 
Adele, that I know best. I am going to take you away. 
For years, 1 have wanted to paint a picture that will 
live after I am dead. I want to take a tour through 
Switzerland mountains, and afterward settle down 
abroad, for awhile, at least. If I do this, Adele, I must 
do it now ; I am too old to put it off long. If you 
would rather stay here than go with me, why ” 

“Papa, I” — she could only lean her head and moan. 
She had said to herself that she would be true to Law- 
rence; if he had sinned, she would try to win him back 
by her forgiveness. But when her father said that he 
was old, and she looked at the gray hairs so profusely 
scattered on his head, and the deep lines on his face, it 
seemed to her that Heaven had been unjust, and that 
she had better have been slain by one of those terrible 
gleams of lightning, on her fatal wedding-day, than to 
have lived to be tortured thus. Poor girl ; there are 
duties and duties ; but the hardest duty to perform is 
the one for sympathy’s sake. 

“Do not answer me now ; I will come back to-night, 
and you shall give me an answer then. Good-bye, 
Della. I will he kind.'' 

When he had closed the door, she buried her face in 


A RECONCILIATION. 


89 

her handkerchief and sobbed brokenly, ‘ ‘ He must have 
suffered ! He is patient and kind. Ah, papa, why did 
you not treat me kindly then ? I can do so much for 
friends that love me.” 

As her father passed out through the hall, he said to 
Nettie, Admit 710 07 ie to-night ; until I return.” He 
then went out through the garden and passed only a 
few feet away from Adele's window. His head was 
bent upon his breast and he walked as though in serious 
meditation. Adele watched him as long as he could be 
seen in the dim moonlight, and when he had emerged 
from view, she lay back upon her pillow and decided, 
not without regret and pain, that inasmuch as she had 
disobeyed and sacrificed her father for Lawrence’s sake, 
if the latter had wantonly deceived and wronged her, she 
would go with her father, and in hapless misery weighed 
her husband in the balance, and awaited her father’s 
return, to hear his report. 

“ And I had learned to think that earth held only 
happiness for me. O my love, I could place my hand 
on your dead face, and be calm ; but this is worse than 
death ! ” 


90 


IIAYNE HOME. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A DISAPPOINTMENT. 

I know that it was my own hand that shut it 
And locked it — but I threw away the key ; 

And so the door can never more be opened 
That stands so grimly betwixt you and me. 

— Howard Glyndon. 

Frederic Moore was more sincere in his intent to do 
good than his non-admirers may imagine. It must have 
required a mammoth effort to forgive a disobedience 
that had been like gall and wormwood to him. His 
whole life had become a disappointment, and all there 
was in it, that had seemed beautiful, had been soured 
by chagrin and regret. Yet, after all that, the best part 
of his nature arose at the knowledge of his daughter’s 
wrongs, and he came forward to either avenge them or 
make amends if he had been mistaken. It must be 
admitted that this was meritorious, and Adele, always 
glad to recognize the good before the bad, saw it, and 
honored him. 

He went to the little rude, weather-stained house, 
that was used for hostelry, saloon, and all public gath- 
erings, and, going into the bar-room, asked to see the 
landlord. 

The proprietor, a brisk little Irishman, came out of 
the parlor, and the moment his eyes rested on Frederic 
Moore, the aristocratic artist, who had hitherto scorned 
to notice even the sign above the door, his manner 
changed from pompousness to obeisance. 


A DISAPPOINTMENT. 


91 


‘‘An' shure, what can Oi do for Misthur Moore ? " 

“May I speak to you. privately, McCarthy ? " 

“An' shure, sir, ye can. Coom this way, Misthur 
Moore." 

He conducted the artist through the hall into the little 
smoky parlor, and seated him in the very chair that 
Lawrence had occupied the day before when he im- 
patiently awaited summons to the sick chamber, so 
restless was he to return to Adele ; but Mr. Moore did 
not know that, and, in an almost inaudible whisper, 
said : 

“Mr. McCarthy, what happened here yesterday? " 

“A woman died, shure." The old man blinked an 
accompaniment. 

“What, kind of a woman ? Young, old, handsome, 
ugly, rich, poor, or what kind ? " 

“Och, Misthur Moore," putting his hand to his lips, 
“she was young and bootiful, an’ it's mesil as thinks 
rache, too." 

“She was young and beautiful? What did she leave 
here — anything ? " 

“Nothin' here. He took it all away.” 

“-)T7zo/^" 

“Your son-in-law, yer honor." 

“ What did he take ? " 

“The blissid babby an' " 

“ He took the baby away, did he ? " 

“ Yaas; an' the box under her pillow, an’ her bag." 

Frederic Moore drew from his pocket the picture he 
had received at Julia's hands. Placing his hand over 
the name written on the bottom of the picture, he said, 
stiffly : 

“ Is that the baby?’* 


HAYNE HOME. 


92 

The Irishman's face lighted up joyfully. 

‘‘An' shure, Misthur Moore, that is the darlint hersil 
— the little Florence." 

The artist replaced it in his pocket, and sighed. 

“ Did you hear anything said between them ? " 

“Not much, shure. He was in there about an hour, 
an’ all tur onct he opened the door an' called us in ; an' 
she was doying thin’ an' said that that was his choild. 
That’s all Oi heard, Mr. Moore, that’s all Oi heard.” 

“ She said that was his child ! ” 

“Yaas; an’ he cud do whatever he thought best, 
shure. ” 

“You would swear to this, Mr. McCarthy ? " 

“Shure an’ Oi would.” 

‘ ‘ Who else heard it ? " 

‘ ‘ My woife an’ daughters, sir. ” 

“That will do. You will understand that this is in 
confidence, and that you are not to speak of it. " 

“Oi understhand. ” 

Bent upon the one object, Frederic Moore retraced 
his steps to Woodside. To describe his emotions 
would seem a waste of patience and time, for only 
those who have suffered from a loved one's sorrow can 
realize the terrible wrath and pain that this father ex- 
perienced. It was such a hard fight, too, for his nat- 
urally vindictive nature was hard to control, and for 
Adele’s sake he hoped to do what was necessary with 
as much outward pleasantness as possible. 

He went back to the house, and went softly to the 
cool, dimly-lighted chamber. Adele had fallen into a 
semi-stupor, and, with closed eyes and pale cheeks, 
made a beautiful but touching picture' for her father’s 
eyes. 


A DISAPPOINTMENT. 


93 

When he came into the chamber the scene struck 
him so differently from anything he had anticipated 
that his regret and remorse seemed to roll over and 
over in his heart until the burden became too heavy 
to be borne patiently. He forgot that Lawrence had 
wronged her. He remembered only that he had been a 
cruel, relentless father, and that his tyranny had driven 
his child from home. He fell at her feet and cried, and 
begged her to forgive him ; that he had been cruel and 
unrelenting, and had calumniated an innocent man, 
but if she would only forgive him he would be kind. 

She opened her eyes and listened. His words and 
his manner had but one interpretation to her, that he 
had found Lawrence guiltless, and had come back to 
ask her pardon and her love. She laid her hand on his 
head, and said, gently, with a master effort to conceal 
the eager anticipation that almost consumed her : 

‘‘Papa, he is innocent. I know it from your words.” 

The remark was like electricity. He sprang up, and 
thoughtlessly cried : 

“Innocent! No; he is worse than I thought 
Adele, you are disgraced, disgraced, Della ; though you 
have done nothing worse than to love a man who has 
disgraced and dishonored your name 1 ” 

She did not answer. It must have been because 
the white lips were so stiffened with misery they would 
not move. 

‘ ‘ Shall I tell you the worst, Adele ” 

“ Not yet ; no, not yet” 

Then he touched her hands with his lips, and went 
away. 

She did not moan nor cry out She neither wrung 
her hands nor paced the floor. She sat dumb and 


HAYNE HOME. 


94 

dazed, staring through the window at the shadows ot 
the trees as they lay quivering on the ground. The 
leaves and branches seemed quaking with pain ; sus- 
pended between heaven and earth, they seemed sob- 
bing and bowing their heads in unutterable woe. Adele 
fell to dreaming of the similarity of her life and the pic- 
ture she had drawn of the tree. The latter stood proud 
and regal among its sisters once. Its arms outstretched 
to gladden the earth with its cooling shade ; a human 
creature comes along, and, with soft white hands, 
tears from its body one of its tender branches, and 
ruthlessly throws it away, if he does not still further 
torture it by dissecting the tendril into atoms. The 
wounded tree writhes in pain, but no one hears, save' 
the wind that comes to soothe and lull its pain with its 
soft caress and musical voice. Thus had Adele’s life 
been maimed. Once she was a girl, young and happy, 
and her heart was tender and charitable. 

The creature passed her way, and, plucking her heart 
from her breast, carelessly threw it away and here she 
sat, nursing her woe, and wondering why heaven had 
sent her this sorrow, when through all her life she had 
sought to do good. 

We never know. It is woman’s fate to sacrifice 
and suffer, to atone for her disobedience in the Garden 
of Eden. 

Mr. Moore did not return to Adele’s room that night. 
He sent Julia in to put her mistress to bed, saying that 
he would come over early in the morning. 

Adele did not demur when told that she ought to lie 
down. She did not sleep for a long time after Julia 
had signified her slumbering state by her hard breath- 
ing. Adele lay and listened to the guttural sounds for 


A DISAPPOINTMENT. 


95 


h. ‘rime, and thought of the pain and shame in store for 
her, but, owing to her loss of sleep the night previous, 
she fell into a troubled slumber, and moaned and talked, 
evidently to Lawrence, all the night. When morning 
came Frederic Moore was admitted to the parlor, and 
was amazed at learning that Adele was up and walking 
about. He went out into the garden, . and found her 
sitting, pale and sad, on the bench where only yester- 
day Julia had found her insensible. 

She did not get up, but reached her hands to him 
eagerly. He sat down beside her, and asked her if 
she slept. She replied affirmatively, and added : 

^‘Papa, I have thought it all over, and think that I 
am as well prepared to hear the worst now as any time, 

and you may tell it to me ” 

“I think, Della, we had better postpone it until some 
other time. You are really not strong enough yet.’’ 

Oh, yes, I am. I cannot endure the suspense. 
The truth cannot hurt me much more. ” 

“I am sorry, Adele, to tell it, because it will pain 
you so ; but you have read the note — the telegram ? ” 
She inclined her head. “And this,” producing the 
picture, “was found in his possession, and this.” 

She paid no heed to the last paper he handed her. 
She was holding the picture ; that innocent face that 
smiled up into her eyes. She examined every linea- 
ment, and the only thing she could see was Lawrence’s 
eyes. Poor Adele ! She suffered more and more every 
moment, and still she held the picture. At length her 
eyes left the childish face and strayed down over the 
chubby hands, the lace dress, and down to the margin 
where a name was written, a name that made her giddy 
and faint, but she betrayed no stronger feeling than she 


HA YNE HOME, 


96 

had at the sight of Lawrence’s eyes set in the baby face. 
She took the paper up and read : “ Florence Holbrook, 
born May 20th, 18 — ” 

Out of respect for her Frederic Moore had walked to 
the hedge, and stood looking over the stream of water 
that gurgled and splashed against the pebbly bank. 
He had not stood there long until he saw Philip War- 
wich step out of a boat at the end of the garden and 
fasten it to a tree. Then he sauntered, in his graceful, 
leisurely fashion toward the garden gate. Mr. Moore 
knew that Philip would see Adele before he should espy 
the former, so he stood quite still, saying, under his 
breath : ‘‘Yes, that snake comes creeping around the 
nest.” He saw Philip bend over his daughter’s hand. 
He heard her say ; “ I am glad to see you.” And pres- 
ently she said, looking about her : ‘ ‘ Why, where has 
papa gone ? ” 

“ Your father here ! ” Philip cried. 

“Yes, papa has been with me. I do not see how I 
could have gotten through the terrible night without 
some friend. Philip, I have decided to go home with 
papa. ” 

‘ ‘ What for ; are you so lonely here } ” 

“Yes ; I could not stay, and I am going back to* 
him.” 

“But not for good, Adele ; not permanently.?” 

“Yes,” she said, with a deep-drawn breath, “perma- 
nently.” 

“Your father has forgiven your unfortunate marriage, 
then ? ” 

“Yes,” she replied, in a low voice. 

“It is noble and generous in him to forgive you. 
You are deserving of a happier fate.” 


A DISAPPOINTMENT. 


97 

Mr. Moore stepped beside them then, and said, 
coldly ; 

Daughter, you had better drink a cup of coffee now 
and lie down. I will come in presently, after I have 
spoken to Mr. Warwick, if he will permit me.” 

“ I shall be pleased, I assure you.” 

do not need assistance, papa. I am stronger 
than you think,” and they watched her sadly as she 
wandered idly toward the house. Then Mr. Moore, 
addressing Philip, said ; 

“ Mr. Warwick, I don’t know how much of this un- 
happy affair you are cognizant of ; but you must know 
of something connected with it.” 

“ I know a very little, but do not feel authorized to 
mention even that since the affair is not mine.” 

‘ ‘ I am going to take Adele away from these unhappy 
scenes. Do you know what caused her illness yester- 
day ? ” 

I understood she was overcome at the intelligence 
of her husband’s departure,” Philip answered, suavely. 

‘ ‘ Bosh ! ” exclaimed the old gentleman. ‘ ‘ Departure, 
indeed ! ” 

‘'You will not leave soon, I presume?” 

“ I do not know, it all depends upon her. If this 
scamp were not your step-brother, I should tell you 
what I think of him, ” the artist exclaimed, hotly. 

Philip only smiled, and deigned him no reply. 

Then these two men, who had been bitter foes for 
years, sat down upon the same bench, with their heads 
close together, and talked of their families, their pros- 
pects, their likes and dislikes, friends, foes, and num- 
berless other topics. They exhausted theme after 


7 


ffA YNE HOME. 


98 

theme, until the sun crept around in their faces and 
sent them off to the house. 

Philip remained but a short time after this, owing to 
an engagement which he was to fill in Lawrence’s 
stead. He went away from Woodside, knowing that 
before another week Frederic Moore would take Adele 
far beyond her husband’s reach, and yet he forebore to 
utter the few words that would have sent the happiest, 
yet most regretful, woman in quest of the husband, who 
had all night been moaning with pain and calling 
Adele. 

The preparations for departure began immediately. 
Adele and her father forebore any mention of Law- 
rence, as it was such a task for her to speak calmly of 
him or to even speak of him at all. So they arranged 
the home of her father for Julia, and Nettie was to 
accompany them. They were sitting out on the 
veranda one evening, when Mr. Moore, after a painful 
silence, said : 

Adele, if I were you I would leave a letter here for 
him, it would look better and perhaps ” 

“Yes, father, I will leave a letter. Shall we start to- 
morrow night } ” 

“ Yes ; we go to the city to-morrow night.” 

“ It is so strange that mother — Mrs. Hayne — does not 
come to see me. She certainly knows that I have been 
ill.” 

'‘Has all she can do to take care of the baby, I 
presume. ” 

He did not mean to wound her, but the thought of 
Mrs. Warwich fostering that child was so odious to him 
that he took a satisfaction in speaking of it. She did 
not answer. 


A DISAPPOINTMENT. 


99 

Then he said, tenderly: “Della, would you rather 
not go so soon ? I can wait.” 

“Oh, go — go soon. I could not leave him, father, 
after I have seen his face. ” 

The next night while Lawrence lay holding his 
mother s hand and telling her how grateful he was that 
Adele had been kept in ignorance of his accident, and 
building castles upon the hope of going soon to his own 
sweet home, Adele and her father got into the train, 
and were whirled into the city where they expected to 
remain until Adele’s health would permit her to under- 
take a voyage. 

* * * 

“I wonder, mother,” Lawrence had said, “how 
Adele took the news of my supposed departure ? ” 

“Philip said she was quite overcome.” 

“ Poor girl. Then I am glad she did not know the 
truth.” 

“Yes, it is as well. Phil told me that Adele and her 
father are great friends, Lawrence.” 

“ Great friends, mother? There must be some mis- 
take.” 

“No, it is true ; he has been there nearly all of the 
time since you have been here.” 

‘ ‘ That is grand. I hope my return will not destroy 
their reunited happiness. ” 

' ‘ We are going to bring Adele over to see you to- 
morrow, dear.” 

“I shall dream of nothing else. Then, mother, 
I think that will be a good time to tell her about 
Florence. ” 

“ Yes ; but don’t forget that Florence belongs to me ; 
you gave her to me. ” 


lOO 


HA YNE HOME, 


* ‘ I shall not forget. 

The next morning, Lawrence, who was as eager as a 
child to see his wife, insisted upon their going imme- 
diately after breakfast to bring her over. He ordered 
his bed arranged so that she might sit near the cool 
window, yet close enough for him to touch her hand. 
He ordered a basket of luscious grapes and peaches 
placed upon the table to refresh her palate after her 
warm, dusty ride. He had them dress Florence in the 
most dainty garments of the exquisite juvenile ward- 
robe that they had bought for her. Florence must make 
a good impression. Had he been anticipating a visit 
from a queen, he could not have been more concerned 
about her reception. After much preparatory delay they 
were ready, and sent the carriage and Mr. Warwich over 
to Woodside. As he drove down the grassy carriage 
road, past the house, Lawrence called out: “Father, 
tell her she need not wait to make an elaborate toilet. ” 
And they all smiled at his eagerness, and thought if 
Frederic Moore could but witness his devotion, he would 
be only too glad that his daughter had married such a 
man. 

After an hour had passed, during which time Law- 
rence almost blinded himself staring down the sun-em- 
blazoned road, John Warwich came back — alone ! 

He did not wait to alight and go indoors ; he drove 
up to the window, regardless of the beautiful grass the 
hoofs and wheels mangled, and told Lawrence how he 
had rung the door bells, tried to force the doors open, 
and attempted every possible entrance, and had finally, 
in sheer desperation, gone over to Moore Hill, where 
he found the frightened Julia and a letter. 

Julia had said she “don’ know nuffin ’bout it, only 


HIS DEATH-BLOfV, 


lOI 


dat Maas Mooah sed dat dey wuz gwine to trabbel, an’ 
dey tuk ole marm long wid ’em.” 

Lawrence did not hear it ; he was staring in blank 
stupidity at the letter, which he held open in his hand, 
and though he read it twice, thrice, and as many times 
again, he was still unable to comprehend it, and so he 
held it thus until he thought all the life had died out of 
him, and only his body remained to suffer. 


CHAPTER X. 

HIS DEATH-BLOW. 

Is love a mockery ? Have we no friend 

Must we strive singly on imto the end ? 

Is no one trying his wrong ways to mend ? 

No one contented ? Hearts made but to rend 

— Hannah B, Gage, 

We are sometimes so cruel in our judgment of the 
misfortunes of others. If we could read the inner 
pages of the life history of our friends, we should not re- 
cognize them, perhaps, but if we did, we should be more 
lenient and considerate in our estimate. For, where the 
cover is of the brightest hue of humor, embellished with 
golden smiles, pretty songs, and brilliant words, there 
may be beneath the gaudy cover, pages blotted with 
tears, columns of heartache, paragraphs of shame, and 
chapters of regret. They smile to hide from the world 
their bitter sorrow, the defaced romance of their lives. 
And so we judge them by their exterior, just as we se- 
lect a book from our library, by its title. But if it is 
our fortune or misfortune to read the story, how often 


102 


HA YNE HOME. 


we turn the leaf upon the last page, and sigh our sym- 
pathy, mayhap drop a few tears, and close the book. 
That is the end — we forget it then. We think they will 
outlive it ; it hurts them now, but the smart will not last 
long ; and because they smile and sing and assume to 
be gay, we think they have forgotten. Ah ! that is be- 
cause they have grown used to the suffering, and do not 
waste their lives in a vain hope that the sting will ever 
wear, away. 

If we could only learn to be kind ! 

Lawrence read the letter, the shaft that Adele had left 
to hide her own grief. She had thought that it would 
be . better to assume an indifference rather than pour her 
sorrow and abused love out upon paper, for him to/>z^, 
and for, perhaps, the petite unknown to smile over and 
call her “ poor thing ! 

No ! they should not know how cruelly they had 
wounded her. She tore a leaf from an album, and wrote, 
tremblingly : 

“ Lawrence : My father and I are at last reconciled, 
and I am going away with him. You will not miss me 
much, Lawrie, your life will be filled with other inter- 
ests. We have been very happy here, but it is best for 
me to go. I trust you will not put me to the annoyance 
of an embarrassing interview. 

‘‘Adele.” 

She did not leave a sign to tell how she had held her 
handkerchief beneath her chin, to keep the hot, scalding 
tears from blotting out the lines. She only said it was 
best. 

And that was what Lawrence read and re-read and 
stared at, and was astonished at his wife and father for 


HIS DEATH-BLOW. 


103 


playing him a silly trick at such a time. He looked in- 
to the good-natured face of his step-father, and said, 
half-reproachfully : 

“Father, if this is a trick, you play it marvelously 
well ; but it is unkind.” 

“ My dear boy, do not think me so heartless ; it is no 
trick upon my part, believe me.” 

“Then Adele is doing.it to tease me for the deception 
we have practiced upon her. I wish she had not done 
it now.'' 

His mother stood by, with clouded face, and gently 
touched his shoulder : 

“Lawrence, dear, may I see the message.?” 

“Certainly, mother; but I shall not worry. I will 
watch for her face and figure to emerge from her hid- 
ing-place among the trees, and shall not give the sprite 
the satisfaction of seeing that she has fooled me.” 

“Lawrence,” his mother said, “the note does sound 
like a trick, but I would not be too surQ of her coming, 
it will hurt you so, ” and laid the letter in his hand. 

“ What, mother, would you have me believe that in- 
famous cheat ? Why better to deal my death-blow out- 
right than set my life at that price. No : the little minx 
loved me, mother,” and those two underscored words in 
his life romance, covered all the possibilities of Adele's 
flight. They looked at him and knew that, though he 
smiled and would not believe, he had held in his hand 
his death-blow ! So they left him to watch for the face 
of his wife, which he believed would flash from amongst 
the shrubbery and flowers, and his mother motioned 
her husband away, and met him at the carriage entrance 
where they held a whispered colloquy regarding the 
errand. 


104 


HA YNE HOME. 


“No, mother,” John Warwich said, “it is no joke; 
it is horrible, but it is true. The draperies are taken from 
the windows and doors at Moore Hill ; the furniture and 
pictures are all covered, and matting has displaced the 
carpets ; it must be horribly true. ” 

“But what are we to do, John ? It will kill the boy,” 
cried Mrs. Warwich’ wringing her hands in distress. 

“Don’t cry, Jennie,” addressing his wife, tenderly; 
“ Lawrence will have all the grief, we must spare our- 
selves to comfort him. ” 

“Yes, John ; but it will seem such poor comfort.” 

“Jennie,” he began, “can you imagine what has 
prompted her to do it ? This cruel thing ? ” 

“ I am afraid, John, that her father has had something 
to do with it.” 

“I know he has ; and I am going to drive over to 
Phil’s and see if he can enlighten us a little. ” 

He drove out through the barnyard and pasture, let- 
ting down bars and opening gates, that Lawrence might 
be spared this added expectation. 

When he drove into the spacious yard, Phil, lounging 
in a hammock with little Dayne, came forward and 
waited respectfully for his father to alight. Mary came 
out and insisted upon her father coming into the house, 
but he declined, and proceeded at once with the subject 
that was filling his heart and mind. 

“Phil,” he said, interrogatively, “we are in great 
trouble at our house.” 

“ Why, father, what is it ? Nothing serious I hope .? ” 

“Yes, it is very serious. Adele has gone away with 
her father, and left the most cruel note for Lawrence. ” 
Adele gone away P” Mary whispered, dubiously; 
and Philip said : 


HIS DEATH-BLOW. 


105 

‘ ' Father, you are surely mistaken. She could not be 
so cruel.” 

“But I tell you it is true, hideously true. He is sit- 
ting there holding that note, and watching for her among 
the shrubs. He thinks it is a trick,” the father cried. 

“It must be a trick, father. Why, I was there only 
yesterday. ” 

‘^She said nothing about it to you then? You and 
Adele were such good friends that I came here in hopes 
that you could enlighten me.” 

“She told me that her father had forgiven her, and 
was kind to her. I told her I thought it was generous 
and kind in him.” 

“Phil, I am afraid we did wrong in keeping the knowl- 
edge of the accident from her. I am afraid she felt 
piqued at not receiving a letter from Lawrence. Natu- 
rally a wife would, you know.” 

“Well, father, I kept it from her at your wife’s insti- 
gation. ” 

“Yes: but she suggested it at my instigation; the 
fault is mine. I thought it would be safer to tell her 
after he had regained consciousness. Dear, dear, we 
do things for the best and yet we are so helpless.” And 
Mary burst out, regretfully : 

“ O Phil, why didn’t you let me tell it ? ” 

“ Because, dear, we thought we were doing best as it 
was,” he replied. 

“ But I knew it wasnH best,” she retorted. 

“No, that’s it ; if we would let the women and girls 
alone they would manage everything ten times better. 
Men have no business meddling with such delicate 
affairs,” Mr. Warwich exclaimed. 

“Where did you get the note, father.?” inquired Philip. 


io6 


HAYNE HOME, 


‘ ‘ At Moore Hill, of Julia. I could not gain admittance 
at Woodside, so I went over there and found Julia put- 
ting away table linen and such things, and when I asked 
for her mistress she got frightened, and her teeth fairly 
chattered when she answered my questions.” He idly 
switched the dash-board with his whip a few seconds, 
while Phil walked back and forth, with his hands thrust 
into his pockets. Mary gently stroked Dayne’s brown 
curls as he stood leaning against her, looking with awe 
into his grandfather’s face. It was an unhappy quar- 
tette. 

‘‘Well, well,” continued Mr. Warwich, “this will not 
help us any, if you do not know anything about it, I 
may as well go back, and do what I can there. Mary, 
you must save your sunniest smiles for us now, we will 
need them.” 

“They will be artificial, father: I never regretted any- 
thing more sincerely in my life.” 

After Mr. Warwich left the drive he stood in the road 
several minutes undecided whether to go over to Moore 
Hill again or back to Wicksburr, but curiosity as to the 
turn Lawrence’s hopes had assumed prevailed, and he 
drove back to his own home, where he found the young 
husband, sitting propped up against pillows, and his 
eyes bent upon the road, watching for some sign of the 
woman he had lost. 

Mr. Warwich sent the horses away and entered the 
house. When he had seated himself beside Lawrence 
and had made every possible effort to attract attention, 
and failed, he spoke softly to the sick man, but he had 
to repeat his name before he received any attention. 

“ Lawrence ! Lawrence ! ” 

He turned the saddest eyes in his father’s direction 


HIS DEA TH-BLO W. 


107 

eyes that seemed orbs merely, that had left their sight 
out upon the grass and flowers. 

‘ ‘ What do you wish, father, you spoke to me ? ” 

“Yes, I want to ask you if there is anything we could 
do that you think will help to clear up this thing ; it is 
mysterious, certainly." 

‘ ‘ What about " he asked vacantly. 

“ Why ! about Adele I ” John Warwich replied, with 
apprehension, at the same time motioning for his wife. 

“Oh, about Adele.? Yes, yes, Adele is coming over 
to-day ; yes. " 

John Warwich and his wife stared in blank horror at 
each other, too astonished to reply, and before they had 
regained their self-possession Lawrence resumed, with 
the brightest smile : 

“Fm sure she has loitered among her flowers, to 
bring me a sweet bouquet ; she knows I love flowers so 
— yes, she is coming to see me to-day. I dreamed of 
her all—" - 

Lawrence, my son! you are not in your senses. 
Don't talk so," his mother cried, shaking him vigorous- 
ly. His smile faded, and his eyes filled with unutter- 
able woe. 

“What was I saying, mother? What time is it? 
Why do7it Adele come ? " he asked, in despair. 

“Have you not given it up yet, my son ? ” his father 
asked. 

He replied indignantly, “ No, father ! of course I 
have not. I shall not give it up until I have proof that 
she has gone . " 

“But, Loll, you have proof right there in your hand; 
is not that enough?" inquired John Warwich, patiently. 
Oh! you are all so easily deceived. I am here help- 


io8 


HA YNE HOME. 


less with my splintered leg, else I would not breathe until 
I had learned the truth. I should not be surprised if her 
father concocted this, without Adele’s knowledge. You 
do not know her,” he cried, with increasing passion, 
*‘as I do, else you would not be so quick to suspect 
her. Why, father, only last week, I asked her banter- 
ingly what we should do without each other, and what 
do you think she said? Why this, ‘ I don’t know, Law- 
rie, whsLijyou would do, but I should pray for death, ^ 
and, mother, I believe her. She was no coquette, she 
was as sure of my love as she was sure there is a 
heaven. See how implicitly she has trusted me ! Not 
one word of complaint has she ever uttered either at 
my tardiness or my business secrets. Why, even after 
our visit the other night, mother, she never asked one 
question, or betrayed a doubt ; she was just as anxious 
to wait upon me, and make me comfortable as ever. 
No, sir ! ” he exclaimed, clinching that paper menacing- 
ly, “this is either a joke or a mistake, if it is neither 
one nor the other, it is treachery somewhere, and I would 
not give much for Frederic Moore’s chance of life if ever 
I get my hands on him. Oh! someone go and find 
her ! ” he cried, in desperation, covering his face with 
his hands. Tears — real tears stole between his fingers 
and dropped upon his paper. They did not disturb 
him by asking any questions, they got up and started 
to leave the room. Evidently he did not desire to be 
left alone. 

“Mother,” he murmured, regretfully, “you used to 
always tell me what to do, your store of wholesome 
suggestions seemed never to diminish, why don’t you 
advise me now ? I am only a boy, in my helpless- 


ms DEA TH-BL 0 IK 


log 

She could not answer until she had wiped her eyes, 
and choked back a sob that threatened to rise. 

‘‘Oh, my boy ! if I only cou/d advise or help you ! 
but don't you see, dear son, that mother’s advice is for- 
feited when the boy takes a wife ? She is the one to go 
to for your advice, dear ; she is the only one capable of 
advising you in the majority of cases. It doesn’t do 
for mothers to interfere, dear ; but in a sad matter of 
this kind, we would all do all in our power to help 
you ; but, Lawrie, what can we do, son, what can we 
do? ” 

“No, it doesn’t do for mothers to interfere ; but I am 
sure, if I had listened to your advice the other night, 
instead of laughing at your enthusiasm, I might be 
spared this unhappy trial.” 

“ Perhaps,” she said. 

She cringed when he made that allusion ; it seemed 
to her that he must have read her inmost thoughts, 
and not for the world would she have thrust anything 
before his aching heart that savored of “I told you so.’" 
He was so unhappy, that she was sorry the conversa- 
tion had ever taken place, and yet she was unwillingly 
haunted with the idea that that mysterious visit had 
had something to do with the strange disappearance of 
Adele. “ Perhaps,” she answered, softly, “but regrets 
for our actions will not bring back the past, we can only 
grapple with the future.” 

“Well, can’t you suggest something !” with a tired 
ring in his voice. 

“Yes, I can sug ” 

“Oh, do, mother, do; anything will be a comfort.” 

“Well, I think if we could see Julia, we might un- 
derstand something more definite. ” 


no 


HA YNE HOME. 


“Just the thing*,” he exclaimed, triumphantly, but 
scowled and concluded, “ if I don’t make her teeth 
chatter, it will be because she tells me the whole thing 
on the threshold.” 

“Now, look here, Lawrence,” said his mother, “you 
know Julia’s peculiarities as well as I do : she is a cow- 
ard, and is not particularly bright, and if you hope to 
gain any information, you must not frighten her.’’ He 
promised to be patient and calm, and Julia was sent 
for. 

It was late in the afternoon when she arrived, with 
her sunbonnet of green and white checked gingham, 
slouched down on her face, and her narrow skirts fan- 
ning to their utmost capacity in the wind. She shuffled 
and dragged her heelless shoes over the gravel-walk, 
until she came to the door of the family-room, beyond 
which she could see Lawrence lying pale against the 
pillows that supported him. Her mental comment was, 
as she waited to be summoned, “ Lawd ! ee is takin’ it 
right smart, awful despurt, I reckon.” 

Mrs. Warwick observed her standing there like a crim- 
inal waiting his sentence, and pleasantly bade her 
come in, saying, as she did so, “ Julia, you see we have 
sent for you to help us out with our trouble. When did 
your mistress go away, Julia .? ’ 

“Wednosd’ evenin’. ” 

“That is night before last; why Philip said he saw 
her yesterday. ” Mrs. Hayne replied with some asperity. 

“Wall, gees he did, mebby ; Massa Warwuk wuz 
ober at Moahs Hill, yesterday.” 

“Oh, then you mean they leftWoodside Wednesday 
evening } ” 

“Yes’m.” 


HIS DJSA TH-B LOW. 


Ill 


“Where are they going, Julia? ” Lawrence cried, in 
his sad, despairing voice. 

“ Dunno, Massa Hayne.” 

Don t know, girl you certainly must know.” 

“No, I don’ now, Massa Hayne ; ’deed I dunno, 
honor bright, now shuah, Massa Hayne.” 

“ For heaven’s sake, Julia, didn’t you hear them say 
anything about their journey ? ” 

“ Not very much, Massa Hayne. De ebenin’ dat dey 
wuz leabin de house, ole mam she cummed ter me an’ 
sez ter me, sez she, ‘Jule, you jest stay hyar an’ take 
keer ob Massa Moah’s tings till I cum back, an’ we’ll 
lib hyar for ebber an’ ebber, kase Massa Moah an’ 
Missus Hayne dey ain’t cornin’ back hyar eny more, 
neber.’” 

Lawrence groaned and dropped his head on his hand. 

‘ ‘ Oh, if could walk. ” 

“Lawrence, don’t get excited. There is time enough 
yet. ” 

“Julia, how didAdele take the news of hfer husband’s 
absence ? ” 

‘ ‘ Dunno what she did dew, but ’tother day I foun’ 
huh insens’bul on de garden bench, an’ she hez ben 
right pore’ly erber sence.” 

“Mother ! they cannot have gone far ; we must send 
some one after her, and bring her back. Julia, did she 
seem to hate to go, or did she go willingly ? ” 

“ Jest a dyin’ ter go, Massa Hayne.” 

^ ^ How do you know ” he fairly screamed. 

“ Kase I heered huh say ter huh fader sez she, ‘Oh, 
take me now, afoah I see his face. ’ ” 

They noticed Lawrence struggle, and fall back. 
When they reached him, he said, “I forgot — and tried to 


IT2 


JfAYNE HOME. 


rise ; my leg will have to be set again/’ His mother 
dropped at his side. 

‘‘Oh, Lawrie, are you in much pain ? ” 

“Not there,” he answered, “the pain is here, and it is 
killing me,” he cried, with his hand upon his heart. 


CHAPTER XL 

A SAD VISIT. 

They sought her that night, and they sought her next day, 

And they sought her in vain when a week passed away. 

In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot, 

Young Lovell sought wildly but found her not ; 

And years flew by, and their grief at last 
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past, 

And when Lovell appeared the children cried, 

“ See, the old man weeps for his fairy bride.” 

— Thomas Haynes Bayly. 

How shall we estimate the complex state of emotions, 
sentiments, and passions that filled the mind and heart 
of Lawrence as he lay helpless and full of pain during 
all the long days of convalescence, the suffering and 
despair as he contemplated a future without Adele. 

Those days were to him like all such days, when the 
white-winged angel, Hope, no longer flutters about the 
soul. He sat by the window — always at the window — 
and his smiles ceased to visit his handsome face, his 
voice was rarely heard, his eyes were always filled with 
gloom, and yet it did not bring the wife he loved and 
trusted. 

Being incompetent to engage in pursuit himself, 
Lawrence trusted that to Philip, who, with inimitable 


A SAD VISIT, 


”3 


perseverance, scoured the country for tidings of Frederic 
Moore and his daughter. That is, Philip remained away 
from home, kept a neat and presumably accurate diary, 
in which he chronicled all his happenings, pursuits, and 
disappointments. 

For two weeks Lawrence kept the Eastern ports 
under surveillance, in order to prevent the fugitives 
leaving the vicinity of home ; but all were premature 
in their search. Adele and her father remained in the 
city, only twenty miles from Hayne Hbme, for five 
weeks, and then they sailed in the steamer Amanx, and 
the dull plash and swish of the waters against the sides 
of the vessel could not drown the cries of Adele's heart 
as she watched the shore recede from sight. 

Days and weeks passed, days and weeks of pain. 
Lawrence improved very slowly ; but at last, when 
there were no longer any blooming flowers in the garden, 
and the grass had begun to show signs of frost-bites, 
and the trees were stripped of all their green and brown 
foliage, he was permitted to walk about without the 
assistance of his cane, which had been his constant 
companion for weeks. He was treated with the great- 
est deference, not an expressed wish being ungranted. 

Lawrence and baby Florence were inseparable all 
these days. At first it seemed to him impossible to 
even feel kindly or friendly toward the child whom he 
felt assured was, in some way, responsible for his 
unhappy fate ; but, as time grew on, it seemed that no 
on©, much less a tender, humane man of Lawrence's 
temperament, could withstand the fascinations of the 
little prattler, as she climbed upon his chair and called 
him “papa.” The eyes importuned, the hands sup- 
plicated, and the dimples charmed him ; but, beyond 


HA YNE HOME. 


1 14 

all these, there was a something in her voice that soothed 
him, and at times acted like an opiate upon his memory. 
Little Dayne was with her constantly. There were only 
a few months difference in their ages, but he seemed her 
senior by years, owing to his rapid development and' 
quick intelligence. The years grew on, and though 
Lawrence had ceased to hope, and had resigned himself 
to his cruel fate, he had not ceased to regret Adele’s 
loss, nor censure himself for stupidly withholding from 
her the knowledge of Florence’s mother’s pathetic death 
and her sacred trust. When Florence was fourteen 
years old, and had been for six years a pupil in the 
little frame schoolhouse just across Mill Creek, her curi- 
osity regarding her orphanage began to assert itself. 
Hitherto she had seemed totally indifferent regarding 
her parentage, and, strange to say, no one among the 
little busy tongues at school had ever essayed to en- 
lighten or interrogate her. Perhaps it was because 
Dayne stood steadfastly by, ready to defend her from 
the little trials and petty grievances that sometimes make 
the pretty child’s school-days irksome. Dayne was 
quite a king among his fellows. The boys admired his 
courage and never-failing diligence, and the shy little 
girls saw only his soft brown eyes and his tender gra- 
ciousness. He never teased nor bantered them ; he 
always stood ready to defend them from the impor- 
tunities of the older boys, and thus Dayne grew to be 
an acknowledged favorite wherever he went. 

At this time, however, some stray gleam of uncer- 
tainty had asserted itself in Florence’s mind, and clam- 
ored for notice. She assumed an indifference, and 
essayed to convince herself that she was Lawrence’s 
daughter, though, in reality, she was almost convinced 


A SAD VISIT. 


“5 


that she was not. They had always told her she was 
his pet, his child, his little girl ; but she never once 
recalled a time when he had called her “daughter.” 
Sometimes she reproached herself for this encourage- 
ment of a shallow suspicion, and told herself she was 
ungrateful for allowing such feverish fancies to intrude 
themselves, when all her life had been one of tenderest 
regard by every member of the homestead. At Aunt 
Prue's she was a very queen, and no slave ever bowed 
obeisance more humbly than Aunt Prue and her hus- 
band, John. They called her Sunshine, Rainbow, 
Jewel, and every other name that contained brightness 
and sparkling beauty. 

On a beautiful morning in May, just as Lawrence 
took up his hat and cane to leave for his office, Florence 
bounded from the dining-room out upon the veranda, 
crying eagerly : 

“Papa, papa, wait for me ! ” 

He turned and looked upon a lithe figure making 
athletic effort to obtain a large sun-hat from the hall 
rack. Smiling at her eagerness, he returned to the hall, 
and, reaching the wayward hat, set it lightly upon her 
burnished curls, saying, pleasantly : “Your anxiety to 
hurry makes you nervous. What are you up to now, I 
wonder ? ” 

“ I want to ride a part of the way with you, papa. 
May I.?” 

‘ ‘ And walk back ? ” 

For answer she only flashed a bright smile into his 
eyes, and clasped her hands about his arm. 

“ Rather warm for that, dear,” he said, kindly. 

“Oh, I don’t mind the heat, papa. I shall come 
back through the woods.” 


ii6 


HA YNE HOME. 


“ Come, then,” holding his hand down for her to step 
in. She sprang into the cart as nimbly as she walked 
along the turf, and when Lawrence had seated himself 
beside her, he said ; 

Now, I know this means something. What is it .? 
The smile vanished, and left pallor where the roses 
had nestled in her cheeks. “You will think me unkind, 
papa, when I tell you that after all your tenderness and 
love, I have an idea that your lovely Adele was not my 
mother. Forgive me, papa. It must seem ungrateful 
in me, but I cannot help it. ” 

He was trembling with surprise and apprehension. 
He allowed her to talk, because he had no wish to 
answer her directly. 

“And this is why you came — to tell me this.?*” 
“Papa, are you angry? I wish I had not spoken,” 
she said, with a pained look in her pretty face. 

“No, child; I am not angry, certainly. What has 
put this idea into your head all at once ? ” 

“ It did not come all at once, I think, papa,” she said, 
encouraged by his gentle manner. “I think it must 
have been in my head for a long time. I can remem- 
ber lying on the bank of Mill Creek years ago, and 
wondering if you had ever had a sorrow besides Adele’s 
death. Did you speak ? ” 

“ No ; go on.” 

“And of late,” she continued, “ my mind is so full of 
queer fancies and horrible things, and it makes me so 
unhappy, papa. I only want to know who I am, that 
is all, to stop this wretched preying upon my mind.” 

“My darling, this is a premature idea for a four- 
teen-year-old brain,” he replied, with evident embar- 
rassment. 


A SAD VISIT. 


I17 

I am afraid you think it an unpardonable one.” 

“ No, I do not, dear. I am sorry, very sorry indeed, 
that you should have thought of this thing. It is un- 
pleasant for you, and makes it — well, Florence, it makes 
me miserable,” he cried, in desperation. 

‘ ‘ Then I am wretchedly sorry that I have spoken of 
it ; you are always sad, papa, and do not talk much ; 
but I have seen you look at me sometimes so strangely, 
and it has aggravated my ideas and made me so un- 
happy.” 

“And you, sweet child, have fretted your pretty hours 
away, in this uncertainty while I have looked strangely 
at you, wondering if the time would ever come when I 
must acknowledge the deception we have practiced 
upon you.” 

“You did it because you are kind.” 

“Yes, we only meant to be kind ; and doubts have 
made you unhappy, Florence } ” 

“Oh, no, papa, not tmhappy ; how could I be un- 
happy when all my life I have had such friends and such 
a home 

“But it has worried you, and you have wondered 
while I have thought you were no more aware of any- 
thing strange in your history than the gaudy butterflies 
you chase. I did not know you ever had a serious 
thought. ” 

She looked serious enough now. After a brief silence, 
he resumed : 

“Florence, you will be fourteen years old next Sun- 
day ? ” 

“Yes, papa.” 

“Will you promise not to worry nor think any un- 
necessary things about yourself until then ? ” 


ii8 


HA YNE HOME. 


“Of ‘course, I will promise if you ask me, papa/’ 

“Then I do ask you, my darling. Be your own 
bright self and give no heed to these thoughts between 
this and next Sunday afternoon, and I will take you 
some place, where you have never been, and where I 
have not been for thirteen years. I cannot tell you 
wJio you are, but I will tell you how you came to me.” 

“Will you, papa.J* Oh, you are too good to me. Do 
you know, papa, I was afraid to speak to you of this, 
for I dreaded to hurt you as I knew it must.” 

“You deserve all I can give you, Florence, you have 
been my main hope — you and mother. Now, dear, 
this is far enough for you to walk. I cannot take you 
back, for I am late.” 

“ Good-bye, papa, whatever my life might have been, 

I could not have been more lovingly cared for, and you 
will always be my papa, anyway.” 

He found no voice to answer, but put his arm about 
her slender shoulders and held her close while he kissed 
her over and over again. Then he assisted her to the 
ground, and with a good-bye gesture drove away. 

Floss returned to the house, and all that day Mrs. 
Warwick noticed something strange in her manner. 
She sang snatches of songs, but her eyes held such a 
far-away look, and her manner seemed at times pensive. 
Then she would brighten up and dive at the piano and 
practice with an energy hitherto unknown. Occasion- 
ally Mrs. Warwick looked up from her sewing to find 
Florence’s large, liquid blue eyes resting intently upon 
her face. The movement on the part of Mrs. Warwick 
seemed to bring the child back from her labyrinth of 
thought, and she would instantly smile and blush as 
though caught in the act of doing something dishonest, 


A SAD VISIT. 


II9 

and then resume her music more diligently than ever. 
Once Mrs. Warwich asked, without looking up, “Why 
are you looking at me so, Florence } 

“Why, grandma, how did you know I was looking?” 

“I felt your eyes upon my face, dear. What are you 
thinking of ? ” 

Reluctantly she replied : “I was wondering if I 
would ever look like you.” 

The elderly lady started perceptibly and answered, 
with considerable embarrassment : 

“My dear Florence, what an absurd fancy ! ” 

“Why is it absurd, grandma?” 

“Well — because — because I hope you will make a 
fine woman some day, Florence.” 

The child's voice rang out the merriest laughter, and 
she sprang down from the stool and embraced her 
grandmother with warmest affection, crying gleefully, 
as she knelt at the lady’s feet : 

“Grandma, I guess you want a compliment. You 
deserve it, too. Why, grandma, dear, it was an absurd 
fancy, since I come to think about it. A little redheaded 
fox like me might make a fine-looking woman, but never 
a magnificent, whole-souled woman, like you.” 

“Oh, Florence, don’t make my antique appearance 
the subject of your fancies ; you should think of pretty 
things.” 

Florence looked at the old lady with undisguised ad- 
miration. “You are the prettiest ol , I was going 

to say old lady, but you are not old, though you are the 
grandma I ever saw.” 

She heaved a sigh as she concluded, remembering 
that this lovely woman whose charm she lauded was 
not her grandmother. Then, oh, then — who was ? 


120 


HA YNE HOME, 


‘ ‘ What made you sigh, dear ; tired ? ” asked Mrs. 
Warwich, and Florence, not wishing to define her sigh, 
took refuge in a mischievous answer : 

“Yes, I am not used to kneeling at people’s feet,” 
and laughingly went back to the piano. The conversa- 
tion set Mrs. Warwich to thinking ; and she always re- 
membered with pleasure that Florence had said she was 
the prettiest grandma she had ever seen. 

The week passed slowly enough to Florence. She 
tried to read, to study, and attend her flowers and birds ; 
she visited Dayne at his home every day, and tried 
various plans to consume the days and hours. 

To Lawrence the days flew like minutes ; he seemed 
but to have fallen asleep, when morning came and an- 
nounced to him that he was one day nearer that dreaded 
visit. When the day arrived, the family all went to 
church in the family rockaway, and to two occupants 
of the Hayne pew, the service seemed interminable. 
They returned home and sat down to dinner. Philip 
and his family dined with them that day, and for once 
Dayne’s presence was not welcome to Florence ; but 
Lawrence inwardly rejoiced at this delay, and when at 
last they did start away, Lawrence gave them the most 
pressing invitation to remain till evening ; but they had 
come over to spend their last Sunday with the family, 
for on the following Tuesdays they were to go into the 
city to make that their permanent residence. When 
their carriage was out of sight, Florence turned to Law- 
rence, and, if eyes ever talked, hers certainly asked if 
he would go now. He must have understood this 
optical language, for he immediately arose, and said : 
“Mother, I promised Florence a drive this afternoon. 
We are going now.” 


A SAD VISIT. 


I2I 


Very well, my son,’' she said, kindly, and added : 

Father and I are going over to see Dick. John 
Wells told me this morning that Prudence was unable 
to come to church, because Dick was quite sick all 
night. ” 

“Why, that’s a pity ! Tell Dick I will drop in to see 
him this evening.” 

Then he ordered the cart brought to the door, and 
assisted Florence into it, and, seating himself beside 
her, took the lines and drove down the road in perfect 
silence until they reached a big gate with rusty hinges, 
and fastened with a padlock, whose keyhole was a net- 
work of cobwebs. The horse stopped, and Lawrence 
alighted. 

“Going in there, papa? That gate is locked,” ex- 
claimed Florence. 

He only smiled a little sadly, and, reaching in his 
pocket, produced a ring of keys, from which he selected 
one of queer pattern. Removing the gossamer lace- 
work from the interior of the padlock, he could not re- 
frain from an exclamation of weariness or distress as 
he contrasted his life with that of the spider. He was 
tearing away the spider’s home, just as his home had 
been torn from him, and how ruthlessly he was doing 
it ! His own loss came upon him so overwhelmingly 
that he would have gladly allowed the spider and his 
family to remain there in harmless peace, could he 
effect an entrance otherwise; but thirteen years ago, 
when he became assured that he should no longer need 
Woodside, he had the entrance at the south side of the 
farm fenced up, and this one he caused to. be locked 
with a patent lock, and never for one day did he allow 
that key to leave his possession. He had never been 


122 


HA YNE HOME. 


there since ; he had never had the courage to face the 
scenes of his joy and subsequent grief. So the spider 
had built his parlor, and after all his patient toil, his 
domain was infested by hands that sorrowed to cau^e 
a spider’s grief. 

As they jogged lazily along the grassy lane, he seemed 
so sad, and sighed so wearily, that Florence, who 
loved him above every earthly being, finding she could 
no longer restrain her tears, burst forth : 

“ Papa, can you ever forgive me for causing this 
pain .? ” 

“Yes, dear, you need not chide yourself ; this must 
have come sooner or later, and I dare say it will come 
easier in company with you, than a visit alone would. 
I cannot tell you, Florence, how it pains me to visit 
this place. The past comes up before me like — it sounds 
affected to say a dream, but that is what it is, Florence, 
the most beautiful dream, and the awakening was so 
horrible ! ” 

In a few minutes they had turned into a little lane 
that lent them a view of the house — just the roof above 
the trees. 

“Why, papa,” ejaculated the girl, “isn’t this the 
Woodside Cottage } ” 

“ Yes,” he replied. “ Have you ever seen it” 

“Yes, Dayne and I rowed down the creek past here 
one day, and Dayne said it was Woodside. Isn’t it 
lovely? ’’she exclaimed, in her enthusiasm, forgetting 
how its loveliness must hurt him. They drove up to the 
little wicket gate through which she caught a glimpse 
of the forbidden Eden. The hedge had grown to 
such a prodigious height that they could see nothing 
but the top of the house, and its dormer windows, 


A SAD VISIT. 


123 

whose blinds were bleached and stained with the 
weather’s caprices. 

Florence observed his agitation, and, respecting it, 
climbed down from the cart and walked to the gate 
and peered through. She did not venture to intrude 
upon that sacred ground until he had opened the gate 
and bade her enter. 

Here it was he had seen Adele last, with the sunlight 
falling upon her hair and the violets at her breast. He 
seemed to inhale their fragrance now. This little iron 
latch — it is rusty now — is the very same they had so 
often playfully quarrelled over, because she would not 
allow him to fasten it with the gate between them. 
There were the flower-beds, overgrown with weeds 
and grass. The walks were covered with dead leaves, 
and little patches of grass had forced their way through 
the thin layer of gravel. He opened the gate and told 
Florence to enter. Once inside they seemed to have 
called up a whole graveyard full of dead dreams. The 
place seemed peopled with invisible beings that whis- 
pered and made strange noises ; the dead twigs which 
had fallen from the trees, crackled beneath their feet, as 
though angered because their sacred precinct had been 
intruded upon. 

When they had traversed the path that led to the 
door, they stood upon the porch and surveyed the sur- 
roundings. It was a sad sight, and Lawrence experi- 
enced the keenest regret, because he had not visited 
the spot sooner, and kept it from the ravages of decay. 

“ Papa, is it haunted ? ” 

Lawrence was not vexed, as Florence imagined, when 
she asked the question. 

“ Haunted! no, what with ? I wish.it were. I wish 


124 


JTAYNE HOME. 


for one moment I could feel the touch of Adele’s lips 
upon my own, or the clasp of her arms about my reck. 
No, Florence, the place is not haunted to you, but to me 
it is haunted by the Ghost of Happiness.” 

She had no reply, and they opened the door and en- 
tered the house. Lawrence walked to the door of the 
little parlor. There were the books they had read to- 
gether, the small piano Lawrence had given her, the 
furniture, the .carpets, the pictures, the bric-a-brac, the 
beautiful embroideries that Adele had wrought with 
her own white fingers, and the cuckoo clock that had 
cooed to Adele the hour that Lawrence would return 
from the office, and whose ticking had made an ac- 
companiment for their bright hours together. They 
were all bright and shining then. Now they are cov- 
ered with dust, and their bright hues, like Lawrence's 
hopes have faded. 

He went from room to room, leading Florence by the 
hand. She did not encroach upon his thoughts ; she 
was mute as well as he. 

Look about you, dear, and examine what you like. 
I will sit down here and think.” He had carried the 
duster in from the cart. Spreading it upon a sofa, he 
*sat down upon it, and, resting his elbow on his knee, 
dropped his head upon his hand. 

He had sat thus, he knew not how long, when Flor- 
ence approached him timidly, and said : 

“ Papa, here is a picture of such a beautiful ” 

Florence, that is your mother !” The silence that 
followed this remark was painful and hard to break ; 
but Florence at last found voice to say : 

“ Papa, I thought it must be your wife. Is this my 
beautiful mother ? ” 


A SAD VISIT. 


125 


The child could not remember her mother, not one 
gesture nor even the tone of her voice, and even now, 
as she held that tiny locket in her hand, she could not 
remember one feature, but the picture with its sweet 
blue eyes and waving hair, seemed to entwine itself 
about her heart and entreat her love. When she had 
looked upon the picture for several minutes, during 
which time Lawrence forgot his own loss, she cried, 
with unfeigned regret : “ Oh, if I only had her now 1 ” 

Her grief was genuine, and while her tears flowed 
fast and her heart throbbed wildly, Lawrence, with his 
arm about her waist and her head resting against his 
shoulder, told her the story of his life. It was with 
many intermissions of tears and murmured laments, 
and many ejaculations of sympathy from Florence, but 
the sad story was finally ended, and when it was finish- 
ed, Florence had gained nothing but the knowledge that 
she was not his child ; that Adele was still living (so far 
as he knew) and that the beautiful face in the locket 
had been her mother's /ace / She did not even know her 
name. 

How she would love that picture ! She had no recol- 
lection of the thousands of kisses those lips had lavished 
upon her own ; she could not recall the sweet voice 
that told her baby rhymes and sang her lullaby ; but 
the instinct, the sweet influence that wraps its mantle 
about our hearts as we lie in the cradle, asserted itself 
and flamed into love for the picture, the beautiful, 
girlish face that peeped at her from the painted glass. 
Was the young mother, from her cloud-curtained win- 
dow of heaven, watching this tender child pay her late 
tribute of love 

‘‘Papa — I shall always call you that — and he invol- 


126 


HA YNE HOME. 


imtarily pressed her closer. “Isn't it strange that my 
father's picture is not here too ? " 

“ It is very strange. It looks to me like there had 
been a picture taken out.” 

“Yes, it does ; papa, may I wear this locket? ” 

“To be sure you may, dear ; I shall get you a slender 
chain to suspend it from. ” 

“You are so good to me.” 

The afternoon had waned ; Lawrence had searched 
everywhere for the papers and casket that he had 
missed and regretted so long, but nothing more could 
be found, and, without a murmur or a sigh to tell of the 
wounded passion within, he went from the house, never 
daring to look back or he must have thrown himself on 
the threshold and wept his heart to rest 


CHAPTER XII. 

A VISITOR. 

The orchard lands of long ago, 

Oh, drowsy winds, awake, and blow 
The snowy blossoms back to me, 

And all the buds that used to be; 

Blow back along the grassy ways 
Of truant feet, and lift the haze 
Of happy summer from the trees, 

That trail their tresses in the seas 
Of grain that float and overflow 
The orchard lands of long ago, 

— James Whitcomb Riley, 

Philip, having found country life tame, and desiring 
to give his son the advantages of a better school, had 
moved into the city. His residence was beautifully 


A VISITOR, 


127 


located on one of the boulevards, and was in reality 
quite an imposing habitation. Philip perfected arrange- 
ments for entering upon a business career. He had 
never given his attention to anything but real estate, 
hence it seemed practicable for him to devote what little 
time he cared to give to business, in that direction, for, 
despite Philip’s shrewdness and his engaging type of 
character, he had done nothing more remunerative than 
to take care of the portion his father had given him, 
which, by the way, began to grow less, owing to his 
too luxurious habits. But he made loud assertions 
about his future prospects, and, if no one believed them, 
they had, at least, the goodness to make no contradic- 
tory comments. 

So Philip took his little family, his servants, and 
horses, to the city, and began life in the manner he 
had so long wished. 

The country homes seemed to change but slightly. 
Philip’s pretty house was occupied by a family by the 
name of Russell. Their one child was a daughter, a 
few years Florence’s senior, but, regardless of the dis- 
parity in their compositions as well as ages, they be- 
came fast friends. Cora Russell was a blonde beauty, 
and one of the most striking type ; beautiful, brilliant, 
and wealthy, she was the fashion wherever she went. 

One day the girls conceived the idea of taking a trip 
to Italy and Spain. Florence, who never asked for a 
favor that was refused, knew that after they had found 
a chaperon, there would be no objections raised to 
their project. Mrs. Russell, a worldly but kind-hearted 
woman, consented to take them under her care and 
spend the year in beautiful, sunny Italy. 

The days that followed were not at all tedious to the 


128 


HAYNE HOME. 


girls, SO full of delightful expectation. But an elaborate 
review of them might not interest the reader ; so we 
will pass them over, knowing full well the delights they 
felt at the piles of mull, lace, embroidery, ribbons, silks 
and velvets, that were being rapidly converted into a 
fashionable tourist’s wardrobe ; the trips to the city 
where, after the day’s shopping was finished, Florence 
enjoyed tantalizingly short interviews with Dayne ; the 
visits to the modiste^ and all the circumstances, both 
pleasant and disagreeable, attending the preparations 
for such a visit. 

At last they were off, and what a pretty sight they 
presented as they sat in the railway carriage, bidding 
adieu to their friends with childish promises of long 
letters, decorous behavior, sweetened with red cheeks 
and saucy dimples ! 

A few days later Mrs. Warwick, who was quite dis- 
consolate without Florence s invigorating society, had 
put on her hat and gloves to pay a visit to Dick, who 
had fallen a prey to the dread disease consumption. 
He never went out now, but he sat all day in a large 
chair by the open window ; sometimes they drew him 
out upon the cool veranda, where he loved to sit and 
listen to the birds, and watch them flit about among 
the trees and boughs he knew and loved so well. 

When Mrs. Warwick had closed the door and stopped 
to hoist her parasol, she observed a man’s figure com- 
ing quickly toward the house. She waited until he 
should make known his errand, and in the meantime 
she scanned his figure closely. The man did not see 
her evidently, but strode on toward her with a deter- 
mined air and a briskness that created an uneasiness 
upon her part. But before her eyes had penetrated 


A VISITOR. 


129 

the mystery, the stranger suddenly looked up, and 
exclaimed : 

“ Mother ! 

Oh, my boy ! ” and the ring of her voice echoed 
the gladness of her heart, and the joy of once more 
embracing her son. He held her in his arms, his eyes 
taking in every line of her fair sweet face and the silver 
threads that had scattered themselves profusely among 
the brown locks, that had such a persistent ripple in 
them. 

Charlie, Charlie ! ’’ she cried, you have come back 
at last to stay with me ; I thought I had lost both of 
my boys, but I have them back again ! ’’ 

This time her eyes refused to keep back the tears of 
gratitude that arose, and, for lack of self-possession, she 
was silent. Charlie was a man of few words, and 
knew so little how to comfort, much less cheer a 
woman, that he was quite at a loss how to answer her. 
Fortunately, however, he hit upon a subject that inva- 
riably drew forth all the valiancy in his mother’s stoical 
nature, the subject of Lawrence’s sorrow. 

Loll met with a terrible misfortune, didn’t he? ” 

Terrible, and cruel ! You can’t imagine what he 
has suffered and what I have suffered for him.” 

“Yes ; I can imagine both. Where is Loll?” 

“ At his office in town ; did you not stop ? ” 

“No ; I saw no one recognized me, and hurried 
home.” 

They had walked back into the parlor, and sat upon 
a sofa. The mother’s hand still clasped that of her boy, 
as though afraid that its release would signal his flight. 
They forgot Dick and Lawrence and all else, so enrapt 
were they in each other. Charlie gave her a brief 

9 


130 


I/A YNE HOME. 


recital of his travels, and, to account for his bronzed 
face, told her that he had come from India home. 

They had not heard from him for more than a year, 
and though Mrs. Warwich spent whole nights in tears 
and prayers for her boy, no one was the wiser, for she . 
stolidly and invariably declared that sooner or later he 
would* unexpectedly drop among them, and repay them 
for all their anxiety and suspense. And here he was 
sitting beside her, his hand in hers, telling her how he 
often longed for home and its delights. 

Two hours passed away ; she told him where she 
was going, and of poor Dick’s affliction, and was grati- 
fied at the readiness he displayed to visit his old com- 
rade and nurse. As they walked toward the Hayne 
Home cottage, Dick, who espied them, called faintly 
to Aunt Prue to come and tell him who was coming 
with Mrs. Warwich. 

Prudence came stalking — she never walked — out upon 
the porch and stood at Dick’s chair, but did not utter a 
syllable. 

“ I hope it is not a new doctor. Mrs. Warwich is too 
kind-hearted ; they will kill me with medicine.” 

Gradually an expression stole into Aunt Prue’s face 
which, in any one else, would have been called a 
grimace, but it was really Aunt Prue’s best smile, her 
most joyous expression. In her monotonous but kind 
voice, she exclaimed : 

^‘Wall, I guess you won’t want no medicine fer 
a while, Dick ; he’s got lots o’ whiskers, but I know’d 
him the minit I set my eyes on ’im, it’s Charlie ! ” 

Dick trembled, and had no voice to speak the words 
that rose to his lips. He sat perfectly still and watched 
the figures advancing more rapidly toward the house. 


A VISITOR. 


13 


He traced in the well-built figure, the old gait, the in- 
dolent swing, which ha<i given Charlie the unmerited 
title of ^^Slow Charlie.” 

How often Dick had sat alone and recalled the good 
old times, and the many kindnesses Charlie had done 
him ! He had always hoped to, in some way, repay 
the Hayne boys for their unselfish generosity to him, 
and now here he sat, hopelessly maimed for life, una- 
ble to offer anything in return for all that he had re- 
ceived from them. 

As Charlie drew near the porch, Prudence, with one 
of her dismal smiles, went out to meet them. She said 
nothing ; indeed, there was nothing for her to say, for 
when her eyes sparkled and grew moist, and her voice 
shook, they knew all that her words would convey ; 
so she only gave him her hand, which he took in one 
of his, but, contrary to all expectations, especially hers, 
he put his other arm about her waist and kissed the 
faded cheek, saying, lightly : 

What is it about the bad penny ? ” 

The meeting between Dick and Charlie was very 
touching and very sad. Charlie was distressed to find 
Dick in such a state, and, seeing the delight his pres- ' 
ence gave the sick man, he lingered until late in the 
evening so as to meet Lawrence on his return from the 
village. Mrs. Warwich, however, could not tarry, so 
she returned home, leaving Charlie to entertain Dick. 
The afternoon had waned and it. was getting dusky. 
They were watching for Lawrence’s cart, when sud- 
denly Charlie sprang up, and said : 

“Bet that’s Loll!” 

Sure enough, the horse was jogging along at an easy 
pace some distance from the house. Charlie told Dick 


32 


HA YNE HOME, 


to expect him to-morrow, and away he went through 
the twilight toward the corner of the great yard. Law- 
rence stopped to inquire about Dick, and noting the 
flush on the usually wan cheeks, and mistaking it for a 
bad omen, went away saying : “ Poor Dicks days are- 
numbered.” His call there gave Charlie time to get 
pretty well down the road. As Lawrence came up be- 
hind the solitary figure walking at the side of the road, 
he could not but recognize the resemblance to his 
brother and sigh over it. He looked at the man twice 
and was getting ashamed of his impertinence, when the 
stranger said : 

“Hello, stranger I Can’t you give us a lift } ” 

Charlie, Charlie I** Lawrence cried, and, throwing 
the reins over the seat, sprang to the ground in less 
time than I can tell it. They shook hands, but the 
grip of these two strong hands contained more warmth 
and welcome than any other greeting could have done. 
It seemed so strange to meet by the roadside after six- 
teen years’ separation. They did not get into the cart 
again ; it seemed too small to carry the big swollen 
hearts in their manly breasts, and so they walked the 
remainder of the way home, Lawrence leading his 
horse by the bridle. 

As they sat at the dinner-table that night every one 
was thinking of the shadow, that lay like a pall over 
their home. They were grateful for this reunion, but 
there seemed a ghost or an invisible presence among 
them, that would not let them be happy. Mrs. War- 
wich said, thinking of Florence : 

“Floss ought to be here to-night” 

“ Floss ? ” Charlie said, in surprise. “Who is that ” 

“Our sunshine,” Lawrence replied. “Mother took 


A VISITOR. 


m 

a little girl into our home after my trouble, and we 
have become very fond of her. ” 

‘ ‘ Where is she now ? ” 

‘‘Spending the year abroad with some friends/’ re- 
plied Lawrence. “It surprised you .? ” he asked. 

^‘Yes; the idea occurred to me, that — you might 
have had a daughter — I never knew.” 

“ No, Adele left me nothing — but a ruined life ! ” 
“Brace up, old fellow, there are queer dispensations 
in this world, and who knows what may happen ? ” 

Ah, who knows ? The remark was dreary condol- 
ence,.’ but it was so well meant that Lawrence could 
only smile without replying. 

After dinner was over the brothers went out into the 
garden to smoke their cigars ; they sat down near the 
spot where they had sat when the . one had expressed 
his dissatisfaction at the other’s prejudiced fancies. 

“Ah, this seems old-fashioned, Chari., as long as we 
cannot see each other’s faces ; though, with all my sor- 
row, I believe time has dealt more leniently with me, 
though we both look old. ” 

“Yes, both look old ; getting old, too.” 

“Ah, dear, don't say such a thing! I am very 
touchy on that point ; you can’t imagine, Charlie, 
what an intolerable thought it is to feel myself getting 
old, actually old, and still no wife.” Lawrence’s face 
was contracted with pain. Charlie could not see it, 
but he knew that it must be so, because the pain was 
in his voice. 

“Loll?” Charlie began, “What caused it all ? Do 
you mind talking about it ? ” 

“Oh, no. Sometimes it seems that I speak of 
it, but poor mother has suffered so much for me, and I 


134 


HA YNE HOME. 


try to let her think that time is helping me, but since 
my visit over there, ” he motioned with his hand toward 
Woodside, “ it seems that I just must speak of it. I 
had never been at Woodside, never had seen the house 
since that fatal morning sixteen years ago, until a short 
time since when I took Florence over to the place, and 
told her all about it. The sweet child had become 
possessed of the idea that I was not her father as we 
had taught her to believe, and so I took her there and 
told her the story of my life.” 

“And sad enough one Idl warrant,” Charles ex- 
claimed, gloomily. 

“Yes, you are right. I have read of sorrows like it ; 
but the reality seems so cruel.” 

“ Did she leave you voluntarily, or did her father take 
her by force } ” Charlie asked, curiously. 

“ She left willingly, and penned me such a cruel note. 
I could not believe her capable of anything so treacher- 
ous.” 

We need not repeat the story, as Lawrence told it, 
broken by comments from Charlie, but he left out noth- 
ing concerning Adele and himself. When he had finished 
and sat with his head drooped forward on his breast, 
Charlie exclaimed : “ Say Loll, you said they told Adele 
that you had gone away ? ” 

“Yes,” Lawrence replied. 

“And never told her better ? ” 

“Why you see, they went over to tell her and she was 
gone.” 

Charlie got up and kicked a boulder out of his path 
and walked moodily to and fro. “Say,” he exclaimed 
suddenly. 

“Well, what?” 


A VISITOJ?. 


135 

“ Oh, nothing — um. I reckon you and Phil are good 
friends ? ’’ 

“ Oh, yes. Phil was my only resource at that time.'^ 

Charlie turned and looked crossly at his brother, and 
murmured something which sounded very much like 
“pack of geese,” and resumed his walk. 

The days passed rapidly. Charlie and Lawrence went 
into the city frequently. Phil was demonstrative in his 
manner toward Charles. He seemed incapable of doing 
enough for their entertainment They always called 
at the house to see Mary, but Charlie would not accept 
Philip’s hospitality, though he declined in such a 71071- 
chalaTii manner that Philip had no idea of the scorn 
Charles felt for him. 

Dayne and Charles became fast friends, and were 
inseparable when the latter visited the city. “Uncle 
Charles ” was Dayne’s king. 

One day Charlie announced the terrible fact that he 
was going away again, news which fell upon his mo- 
ther's heart like ice-drops. Lawrence had seemed so 
much improved in spirits since his brother’s return, that 
she had hoped his stay was permanent. And now he 
was going away ! He saw how deeply she regretted 
his departure. So he said : ‘ ‘ Mother, you acted for the 
best in Loll’s case, I suppose, but you made a terrible 
mistake.” 

“ Why, my son. How .? We did everything that was 
possible.” 

“Yes, but you didn’t do it right. It would never have 
happened if lynx-eyed Charlie had been here.” 

“Well, it can’t be helped now,” she added, with a sigh. 

“Perhaps not. But, mother, I am going to find 
Adele, and bring her back. ” 


HA YNE HOME, 


136 

His mother stepped back in dismay at his announce- 
ment. Even if you find her, she will not come,” and 
she shook her head in despair. 

“Don’t tell Loll, for if I fail, it will be a double dis- 
appointment. ril spend every cent I possess but whai' 
I find her, whether I bring her back or not.” 

“ Why, son, where could you begin? It is such a 
mystery. ” 

“Well, in the first place, I shall go to the Hall of Arts, 

in D shire. His picture, ‘The Loneberg Castle,’ 

was on exhibition there for two years and is doubtless 
there yet. If I can’t obtain his address there, I can at 
least trace him from there. ” 

“It is a great undertaking, my son.” 

“Ain’t it, though ? But I’ll enjoy it, after I catch the 
scent. ” 

The next day he visited Dick and made known all his 
plans. Dick listened, enraptured with the idea. This 
scheme of Charlie’s was what he had dreamed of and 
thought of for months, but here he was tied hand and 
foot by a disease from which there was no escape, and 
only his mind and his great, big heart to rove around in 
search of the woman who he knew, if the truth were 
told, loved the sorrowing Lawrence even as he loved 
her. 

“So, Charles, you are going away again? I should 
be very sorry under other circumstances, but I am glad 
that you are going, and I pray God, Charlie, you may 
find her.” 

Lawrence was loud in his protestations when he heard 
of Charlie’s intended departure. He begged like a little 
child for him to stay, but Charlie silenced him by saying : 

“ Loll, I’ve got work to do. It may take me a great 


DICfCS DEATH. 


137 

while, and it may not take me long at all ; but it must 
be done, and when I come back, I’ll tell you my story,'' 
and before Lawrence could answer, he was gone ! 

Lawrence reflected: “Wouldn’t it be queer if old 
Charlie should have had a love affair?” 

How little he dreamed that the love affair was his own, 
and that Charlie was leaving the rest and comfort of 
home for the rough, tiresome life of travel, to trace up 
another man’s wife ! 


CHAPTER XIH. 
dick’s death. 

Home they brought her warrior dead ; 

She nor swooned, nor uttered cry ; 

All her maidens watching, said : 

“She must weep or she will die.” 

Then they praised him soft and low, 

Called him worthy to be loved. 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 

Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

— Tennyson. 

Girlhood, through its entire period is beautiful, but at 
no time is it more interesting than at fifteen. We all 
like to look back to that epoch in our history ; no mat- 
ter what ills attacked us then, or what crosses we car- 
ried, we like to look back to it as upon a picture faded 
and old. A girl at fifteen is not personally as attractive 
as at some other ages, for she is, as mothers frequently 
lament, “just at an awkward age.” She is too young to 
wear long dresses ; too old to wear them short ; then 


HA YNE HOME. 


138 

they must come just to the tops of the shoes, where 
they display any awkwardness in her gait, or a too rap- 
idly growing foot. The entire toilet is affected by the 
half-growth of the girl, but, as if to atone for this griev- 
ance, nature has bedecked her with a crown of wit,- 
humor, and gladness, and this is the age that makes us 
wonder what the future will do for her. What kind of 
a woman will she make } 

A girl at fifteen is like a half-blown flower. It is so 
beautiful now in its half-developed loveliness, we dread 
to see it expand in the fullness of its beauty, lest a rough 
wind come, and, striking it, whirl its petals one by one 
away, until there remain only the stem, desolate and 
ruined. 

No more charming maidens ever grew than the two 
lithe, bonny, free-hearted girls, whom we saw last in 
the railway carriage en route for their tour through the 
beauties and historical localities of Italy. Their friend- 
ship had strengthened and grown into a deep affection 
for each other. Cora's blonde loveliness was such a 
contrast to Florence's dark beauty that they made a 
most striking pair. They returned from the mountains 
happy and gay. They had quaint things to tell, and 
amusing anecdotes to relate to the ever-ready ears of 
Dayne, who spent half of his summer vacation at Wicks- 
burr, hunting and fishing, having for his companion a 
school friend, Walter Reynolds, a gay young lad of 
twenty years. The boys were still at the country- 
place when Florence and Cora returned home. The 
days that followed were halcyon days to them. There 
were trips down the stream, now swollen with the 
August rains, in light boats, followed by charming little 
dinners in the woods, rambles, grapevine swings, and 


DICK^S DEA TH. 


139 

a visit to some uncanny nook, just to produce little 
rapturous sensations of fear and romance, made up the 
routine of the happy, care-free days “that made that 
summer sweet.” 

The boys admired Cora Russell greatly ; she sang 
well, danced superbly, and was not only a fluent talker, 
but her mind was a repository of choicest, sweetest 
thoughts, and she expressed them in a manner both 
touching and graceful, not to say flowery. Dayne was 
too hopelessly in love with Florence to see Cora’s love- 
liness, although he was charmed with her agreeable- 
ness. Cora entertained a sincere regard for Walter, and 
consequently, was utterly oblivious to Dayne or his 
sentiments. Floss was evidently not burdened with an 
overweening fancy for any one ; but could we have 
invaded the sanctity of her pretty pink and white bed- 
chamber, where, night after night, she opened the 
little gold locket and peered lovingly upon a new face, 
which was not her mother’s face, but which smiled at 
the dead face opposite, we should have learned that 
Dayne’s love, in all its youthful ardor, was recipro- 
cated. As for Walter — well Walter liked all the girls, and 
while he did not admire Cora Russell one whit more 
than a dozen other girls, yet Cora was kind to him, 
tendered him the most agreeable hospitality, and Walter, 
knowing so well Dayne’s affection for Florence, lav- 
ished his most respectful attention upon Cora, and 
she, poor susceptible girl, gave him all her loving little 
heart without the asking, and basked in the sunlit hope 
that he had given his in sly exchange. 

Thus the months passed away. When it was too 
cold to enjoy the delights of country life, the girls 
went to the city and attended dancing school, card 


140 


ffA YNE HOME, 


parties, and entertainments, with the ever-watchful Mrs. 
Russell for chaperon. 

The winter passed and spring rains fell and moistened 
the thirsty, frozen roots of trees and flowers. The 
grass had only begun to peep out in little verdant 
patches, when poor, loyal Dick Turner died. His 
death was looked for and dreaded ; yet it made the 
blow none the lighter for Aunt Prue and John Wells, to 
whom Dick had always shown the tenderest respect. 
Dick was only a poor man, but no Earl was ever 
shown tenderer regard or more loving care than this 
great, honest Dick whom everybody loved. 

The morning of the day he died, he called Aunt Prue 
to his side, and said : 

“Auntie, I shall go very soon now 

“Don’t talk of it, Dick, you hain’t goin’ yet,” Pru- 
dence said, with dry eyes, but aching heart. 

“Yes, Aunt Prue, I feel quite differently this morn- 
ing from anytime yet, and though I am not in the least 
pain, yet that is a certain sign of the end. I want to 
talk to you. Auntie, while I have strength. There is 
so much I should like to say, and, dear, I must explain 
something to you which I can trust you to keep. It 
must not be known. Auntie, not yet ; perhaps some day 
it will be best to tell it, but keep it locked tight in your 
breast. Aunt Prue, until that time comes.” He stopped 
talking for her to wipe the cold moisture from his face. 

“Diclq yer gettin’ excited. Can’t yuh leave it till 
another time } ” 

“No; this is the time. What did you do with the 
papers I gave you the other day. Auntie. ” 

“Put ’em in my chest an’ locked ’em up. Yuh said 
nobody mus’ see ’em.” 


DICK^S DEA TH. 


14 1 

^‘Yes, dear, that was right. I want them now, will 
you get them ? ” She straightened her angular form 
and stalked sorrowfully out of the room. She got the 
papers but somehow the sight of the things in that old, 
worm-eaten chest, affected her strangely, and she 
bowed her head on the lid and wept ; wept tears that 
she would not have had anyone see for all the world. 
Dick’s baby clothes were in that chest. His little shoes 
with the toes worn through ; little dresses that were white 
once, but yellow with age now ; little stockings that 
once were blue, but now faded to almost white ; and the 
loved form that once was clothed with these little gar- 
ments was lyin^ below with death’s cold moisture stand- 
ing on face and limb. It seemed more than she could 
bear ; she must empty her heart of all this aching full- 
ness ; the tears that fell like rain had been gathering in 
her heart for weeks, and now they had burst their 
bonds, there was no help for it, they must flow. She 
did not notice that teardrops fell upon the papers she 
held in her hand. She gathered them up and went 
down-stairs. There were no trace of tears on her face, 
but there was a perceptible redness in her eyes, and a 
quivering of the lips which Dick failed to notice until 
after he made a remark that he would have given 
worlds to recall. When she handed him the packet 
he said, thoughtlessly: '‘Why, Auntie, these papers 
are wet.” Then he looked into her face and smiled 
sadly at the answer. 

“ I stopped to sprinkle the dew plant as I passed.” 

No wonder he smiled, as though Aunt Prue would 
stop to care for plants when God was sprinkling death’s 
dew upon her boy. 

He took the papers and spread them open before 


142 


HAYNE HOME, 


him ; his poor, thin hands trembled so he could 
scarcely hold the fluttering papers while he explained 
their contents to Prudence. They were papers that he 
had written after Charlie went away a year before ; he 
had looked over them often to assure himself that all 
was clear and plain, that nothing of importance was 
left out, and now, for the last time, he examined them 
and called upon Pleaven to witness his oath as to their 
truth and genuineness. 

‘‘Now, Aunt Prue,” he said, “ you will keep these 
papers until something turns up to make this knowl- 
edge necessary. It is better not to tell it now, because 
it will only bring grief and shame to the Warwichs. 
Perhaps when Charlie comes back he may do something 
to right this wrong. I scarcely think it probable, how- 
ever, as, in case Adele does not come back, there will 
be little use in bringing disgrace in connection with 
their grief, and, if Adele does come back, Philip will 
understand by Charles’ interest in the affair, that Charlie 
does not intend to be trifled with. But, auntie, perhaps 
it would be just as well for you to mention to Charlie 
that you possess these papers, and, in case of necessity, 
he will call for them. Now, Aunt Prue, will you put 
your name to these, and then I am done with them. ” 

Aunt Prue took down the pen and ink and wrote her 
name as a witness to the death-bed oath, then arose 
and, putting them into a drawer, turned the key and 
put it into her pocket. She returned and sat beside Dick, 
who said, ruefully : 

‘ ‘ That is all the will I have to leave you, auntie, ” 
and she thought, “that and a broken heart.” But she 
could not answer him ; it seertied that her heart was 


DTCK^S DEA TH. 


143 

drying or burning up, and that never again should she 
see anything bright or beautiful in life. 

The friends who came every day to see the sick man 
began to gather in. Mrs. Warwich came, bringing with 
her a basket of choicest delicacies to tempt his palate, 
but a sight of the eyes, glassy in their deathly lustre, 
and the cheeks, with their hectic flush, told all too 
plainly that Dick would need no more of her tender 
kindnesses and loving attention. He took her hand, 
and said : ^^Dear Mrs. Warwich, I have neither words 
nor breath to thank you for all your goodness to me. 
Tell Charlie that, with my dying breath, I pronounced 
him the greatest hero, the grandest man I know. Tell 
him I left my good-by for him with you."' 

When Lawrence and his step-father came, he had 
kindest, tenderest words for them as for everybody who 
came. Philip and Mary came immediately upon re- 
ceipt of the message, but were too late. John Wells, a 
quiet, inoffensive man, too tender-hearted to sit by the 
dying man, had gone out to the end of the house where 
an old-fashioned chimney stood rigid and bleak, and 
there in the corner by the chimney, he sat vvith his 
arms folded across his breast, his hat slouched down, 
and the great tears glistening untouched from his eyes 
to his chin. He was the picture of abject despair. 

Dick’s voice grew weak ; his breath came fainter ; he 
was slowly and surely sinking. 

O, heaven, this terrible going out of life’s fire ! To sit 
by the couch of our loved one and see the last faint, 
flickering spark go out, with no power on earth to re- 
kindle it, or hope to fan it into flame ; nothing, nothing 
but to sit and see it growing smaller, fainter, feebler, 
until at last the one little flickering ray grows dim, and 


144 


HA YNE HOME. 


then dies out. All that is left to us is the memory ; the 
memory of the sweet, the good and the best ! not the 
faults and the shortcomings, only the good and the 
true. These are all we have, but they are sweetened 
with the consciousness that there awaits, beyond, some- 
thing better than this, and we bow our poor heads and 
try to calmly say, “ Thy will be done ! 

When Dick’s last breath had taken its flight, friends 
approached the bed to perform the last kindly offices 
for the dead ; but Aunt True, without sob or tear, pushed 
them away, and reverently drew the spotless linen over 
her boy’s dead face. 

Do not rob her of her last act of love ; let her sweeten 
her sorrow with the offices of affection which she will 
never more attend. Her eyes were dry, but their burn- 
ing depths and the white set lips bespoke such anguish 
and grief as could not be soothed by tears. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE MEETING ABROAD. 

Farewell, farewell 1 see, I must die. 

With fainting for the loss of thee. 

Lost love ! restore me with a sigh, 

And let thy kisses rain on me. 

Farewell I and when the ocean wide . 

Hath parted us, as it must part, 

One sigh will draw me to thy side, 

One kiss will heal my broken heart. 

— Clement W. Scott. 

When Charlie left Hayne Home to go in search of the 
lost wife no one recognized the enormity of his under- 


THE MEETING ABROAD. 


145 


taking more than he did himself. It was a hazardous 
beginning, and who could tell whether it might not 
be a perilous ending } It did not matter to him ; he had 
set his heart on finding Adele, and, as he had said, he 
would spend every cent he possessed before he would 
give it up. He might not find her, it is true ; but when 
he could no longer search he would have the assurance 
that he had done his best. 

He traveled constantly, going from one place to 
another, only stopping long enough at each place to con- 
vince himself that he was not on the right track. After 
sixteen months of search he stopped at Florence. Not 
that he dreamed of finding them there, but he had traveled 
all through these parts before, and everything Florentine 
having a peculiar fascination for him, he was induced 
by love of the city to tarry a while. 

One day, when he had accidentally met a former 
traveling companion and they were starting out for a 
visit to the Villa Careggi, where they had, six years be- 
fore, felt awed at its imposing, antiquated grandeur, 
with its cold polished floors and painted historical walls, 
they noticed a carriage preceding theirs containing a 
party of tourists, and were still commenting upon the 
probable nativity of the party, when they all came to a 
sudden stop at the entrance of the villa. When they 
were inside the walls they stood admiring the trees, the 
flowers, and the terrace overlooking the garden, when, 
suddenly, Charlie’s companion said; ‘‘Jove, what a 
face ! ” 

“Where? ” Charlie inquired. But he need not have 
asked, for his friend was standing almost rudely staring 
at a young girl before him, who belonged to the party 
mentioned. 

10 


HA YNE HOME. 


146 

Charlie looked at her curiously, and replied : “She 
ts beautiful. Wonder where they are from .? " 

He did not dream that he stood so near the object of 
his wanderings. 

After they entered the villa they became separated 
from the party, and when Charlie and his friend emerged 
from the gardens the other carriage was gone. 

Days passed by, and still Charlie lingers in the his- 
torical scenes of Florence. For perhaps the sixth time 
he visits the San Martino. There is something about 
that little edifice that soothes and comforts Charlie 
Hayne. Perhaps it is because in this church Dante was 
married to Gemma Donati, the peevish, fretful woman, 
who made him unhappy and discontented. Charlie 
loved to listen to the tales the old sacristan evidently 
loved to tell, and, this morning, standing where he could 
command a good view of the paintings in the lunettes 
above the altar, he was completely buried in dreams. 

There were visitors coming in, whom, at first, he did 
not heed; but presently a sweet, soft voice said : 
“ Isabel, I do not think you appreciate this opportunity. 
It is worth more than all your studies in history.” 

“Why, yes, mamma, I think I do. Why do you 
doubt it ? ” 

“Because, my dear, you seem so absent-minded this 
morning.” And then the younger voice whispered 
something he could not hear, excepting the words 
“Villa Careggi.” 

He was still looking towards the frieze in the lunette, 
but he no longer saw it. He was burning with curi- 
osity to see the face of the speaker, who, he was 
almost certain, was the beautiful young girl he had seen 
on the occasion of his visit to the Villa Careggi. He 


THE MEETING ABROAD. 


47 


waited, however, a period of politeness, then he turned 
in a nonchalant manner and stood face to face with the 
lovely girl, who was, as he had anticipated, the girl with 
the strikingly beautiful face. 

The lady and gentleman who accompanied her had 
walked away and stood with their faces from him. The 
girl looked confused when he observed her eyes bent 
so searchingly upon his face, and turned her attention 
to something else, but not until he had noticed the pink 
flush that overspread the pretty cheeks. 

This girl was not over fifteen years of age ; but her 
face, in its sad repose, was striking. She seemed in- 
capable of smiling, and her dark eyes looked unfathom- 
able to him in the shadows of the church. Her hair was 
not brown, not even a light brown. It was of that 
shade of yellow which, in the sun, flashes forth an inde- 
scribable brilliancy, dazzling and beautiful. Her wil- 
lowy grace and easy manner might have been envied 
by many belles of fashion. 

She wandered aimlessly about the church, and finally 
joined the elder couple who were starting toward the 
outer door. Charles stood lost in a dream. What a 
comfort a daughter like that might be to a man ! He 
watched them as they passed out of the church, and then 
he bethought himself of the length of time he had been 
there himself, and idly wandered away. Again he had 
stood beside Adele, but did not see her face. The 
interesting trio had gone a few steps from the door when 
the old gentleman, depending greatly upon his cane for 
support, set it down upon a little stone that rolled and 
sent his cane whirling out of his hand. But for the quick 
movements of the lady and her daughter he must have 
fallen prone upon the ground. He regained his footing. 


HA YNE HOME. 


148 

and, by the time Charlie reached them, the old gentle- 
man was walking slowly, and with a painful effort 
Taking off his hat to the ladies, and scarcely looking 
into their faces, Charles said : 

If you permit me, sir, I will see you safely to your, 
lodgings. ” 

The unfortunate man turned and accepted his offer 
with profuse thanks. When he laid his hand upon 
Charles’ arm, the latter recognized Frederic Moore, and 
knew that his search was ended, whether he accom- 
plished his object or not 

‘ ‘ I think I have sprained my back. I am rheumatic, 
and have been more than usually exposed here. Our 
lodgings are cold and poor, but they are the very best 
we could obtain. ” 

“ Have very poor ones myself,” Charlie anwered. 

Frederic Moore showed him the way to their rooms, 
the ladies coming close behind. It seemed sometimes 
that Charlie must satisfy this curiosity to see Adele’s 
face, but not for worlds would he have had her recognize 
him then. 

When they reached the rooms, and Charlie had put 
Frederic Moore upon a couch, and tendered him what 
little services lay in his power, he turned to take his 
leave, and to bid them call upon him if he could be of 
any further service. The afflicted man had fallen asleep 
under the warm influence of the decoction Charlie had 
prepared for him. The latter had no intention of 
making himself known then ; but when he first saw 
Adele without her bonnet, he could not — having been 
enduring this suspense so long — he could not repress a 
faint ejaculation of surprise. She was, he thought, the 
most superbly beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her 


THE MEETING ABROAD. 


149 

hair, once so sunny and fair, was now gray, not 
sprinkled merely, but gray in its entirety ; but while her 
hair had whitened with sorrow, it seemed that her face 
was too sweet to be lined with care, so it still remained 
beautiful in its fresh pink and white perfection. Her 
dress was of some soft gray texture, that hung in grace- 
ful folds and draperies, and showed to advantage the 
finely rounded figure. 

Charlie looked at her one moment, a moment in which 
he thought of a hundred things, belonging to the dreary 
waste of years through which they had passed. What 
a mockery this separation was after all ! How fool- 
hardy it all seemed ! A cruel, heartless deception, as 
transparent as glass, had caused all this ! The most 
intricate plot could not have caused more sorrow 
without bloodshed. For the first time in all these years, 
Charlie realized the mistake he made in leaving home 
when he did. We make such stupid blunders sometimes 
in our efforts to preserve peace and ward off grief. He 
had gone away, feeling that if the unfortunate encounter 
with Philip became known it would mortify and grieve 
Mrs. and Mr. Warwick. No matter who had to bear 
the blame, it would be equally painful to them. So he 
had exiled himself all these years to prevent a scene, 
and this was the result. A man in America with gray 
sprinkled locks and deep-lined brow, lonely and sad ; 
and, here before him, a woman who should be crowned 
with golden brown hair and smiling face, was the pic- 
ture of hopeless suffering. This was the result of his 
sacrifice. Surely, if he marred his first attempt, he knew 
better now, and might he not accomplish this reunion ? 
He prayed that he might. He opened his mouth to 


150 


I/A YNE HOME. 


speak. She turned white as the collar she wore, and 
said, faintly : 

“ I know you ; you are Charles Hayne,'" 


CHAPTER XV. 

Charlie’s discovery. 

The years of man are looms of God, 

Let down from the place of the sun, 

Wherein we are weaving always, 

Till the mystic web is done. 

Weaving kindly, but weaving surely 
Each for himself his fate, 

We may not see how the bright side looks, 

We can only weave and wait. 

— Anonymous. 

Adele had said, with beating pulse and white face : 
“I know you. You are Charles Hayne.” 

Charlie knew that it required an effort for her to speak 
calmly, but he did not guess the one tithe of pain the 
mention of that name caused her. He was taken so 
completely by surprise that he could frame no answer, 
so he bowed his head, and waited for her to drive him 
away or bid him stay. 

“ How came you here } Have they sent you to spy 
upon my daughter and me .? ” she asked, looking into 
his eyes with a piercing firmness. 

“No, madam. They do not know you have a 
daughter, and they have not sent me,” he replied 
meekly. 

“ How came you here? ” she said, authoritatively. 


CHARLIE^ S DISCOVERY. 


151 

** I have spent all my late years in travel. I have never 
been at home since — since " 

‘‘ Since our marriage. I understand. 

Since that time, until sixteen months ago.” 

“ Did you know who we were when we were in the 
church ? ” 

‘*No, madam, I did not. When your father spoke 
to me first I knew him ; but that was after I had offered 
my assistance.” Then he determined to tell her all if 
she would let him, and, casting a furtive glance at the 
sweet, wondering girl looking upon him with those 
startled eyes, he said, kindly : 

“Adele, IVe never been anything but your friend. 
Will you not tell your daughter who I am, and let me 
talk to you ? ” 

“Yes, you were always my friend, so far as I know.” 
Then, with a deep crimson blush, which always over- 
spread her features at the mention of her husband, she 
said : 

“Isabel, this is your father’s brother. Come and 
greet him, dear.” 

Isabel advanced at once, gave him her hand, and 
startled them both by saying : “I remember so well 
seeing you when we visited the Villa Careggi. I rec- 
ognized you immediately in the church. ” 

He still held her hand, and, with a modesty most 
painful, said, in reply: “My dear, I am glad you 
deemed me worthy a second thought. Why did you 
remember me among all those visitors ? ” 

“Oh, I really don’t notice the resemblance now ; but 
at first you made me think of a young girl I met last 
summer in Lucca. Don’t you remember, mamma, that 
I took such a fancy to a little American girl the day we 


HA YNE HOME, 


152 

went up into the Guanigi Tower?” she asked, as she 
resumed her seat. 

Yes, my dear, I remember.” 

“Adele,” Charles began, “will you let me talk to you 
before I go away ? I have much to say — not from 
them — it is on my own account.” 

“Not to-day — no, not to-day. Give me time to think. 
I did not dream that I should stand face to face with one 
of you again. It is very sudden. ” 

“Yes, it is sudden. I will give you time to compose 
yourself ; only don't refuse to see me. Set an hour for 
me.” 

She stood with downcast eyes a moment, and, rais- 
ing her head proudly, she said : “I will not be weak. 
You may come to-morrow at four o'clock.” 

He replied with gratitude, and moved toward the 
door. 

Isabel sprang up and said, pleasantly : “I will show 
him out, mamma.” The door had no sooner closed 
behind Isabel and Charlie than the former said, with 
her great black eyes resting solemnly upon his face : 
“Uncle Charlie — I may call you that? Won't you tell 
me about my papa — how he looks ? Does he look like 
you ? ” 

“Oh, no, Isabel. Your father is called a strikingly 
handsome man.” 

“ And is he ” she asked, earnestly. 

“Good? He — he is very good.” 

“ Tell me more of him. Oh, if you only knew how 
I want to see him, and know him ! Think of it. Uncle 
Charlie ; I am nearly sixteen years old, and have a 
father, yet I have never seen him. Is it not hard ? ” 

“Yes, Isabel, it is very hard; but not as hard for 


CHARLIE^ S DISCOVERY. 


153 

you as for him,” Charles replied, sadly, and the sadness 
was reflected in his voice. 

‘ ‘ Does he care Would he like to see us ? ” she cried, 
eagerly. 

“ He IS miserably unhappy ; but he does not know 
that he has a daughter who would be precious to him. 
He would be doubly miserable if he knew.” 

“ Then why does he not come to us .? ” 

‘ ‘ My dear, you must forgive my abruptness. I can- 
not answer any more of your innocent questions until 
your mother gives me permission. Then you shall 
hear all you like.” 

She looked painfully disappointed, but answered : 
“You are right ; though I am sure mamma would not 
care, for she has tried so often to tell me about him, 
but she always is sick from grief afterward, and grand- 
pa worries so, too, then that I do not ask her any more. 
I don’t see why he keeps us away so long, or why he 
don’t come to us. I am sure if he knew how dearly 
mamma loves him he would come. I hope I shall love 
papa as well as I do you.” 

Charles spoke of commonplace matters until the 
gloom had left her face, then he bade her adieu, prom- 
ising to return on the following day ; and he left in the 
doorway a young girl who had said : “I hope I shall 
love papa as well as I do you.” And these words rang 
in his ears long after he went to bed that night. 

When Isabel returned to the room they had left she 
found her mother standing beside the narrow window, 
peering dreamily through the twilight shadows. Adele 
did not, for some minutes, perceive her daughter’s re- 
turn, although the latter could have touched her mother’s 
arm, so near she stood. 


154 


HA YNE HOME. 


The mother turned with a gesture of longing or im- 
patience, or perhaps despair. Isabel could not define 
it, although she had observed it many times before, 
and she remembered that it always followed these fits 
of abstraction, when her mother seemed devoured by. 
some hungry phantom of the past. Adele had suffered 
many ills since she left her American home ; sickness 
and financial loss, and many other distressing failures, 
had seemed to follow each other in quick succession, 
but she bore them with commendable fortitude. They 
all paled in misery beside this one great grief-— the grief 
of her life. 

As she left the window with her indefinable gesture, 
Isabel overheard her say : “ Oh, if I only knew.'’ 

Isabel instantly sprang to her side. 

“ Mamma, tell me what is it ? Am I not old enough 
to know } Have I not waited long enough to know the 
secret of your life? Tell me, mamma. I implore you, 
tell me why we are here, while my father lives in 
another country. Surely, mamma, I am old enough 
to know.” 

Adele looked at her stupidly. Was the child going 
mad, or had something really fired her curiosity to this 
pitch ? 

Adele clasped her hands around her daughter’s arm, 
and they walked together to the little old-fashioned 
lounge, which decorated or disfigured one side of the 
room, as one’s taste must decide. The mother sat 
down, the daughter slid to the floor and laid her head 
against her mother’s knee. 

Every vestige of color left Adele’s face ; but, with a 
determination which we have not perceived in her be- 
fore, she began : ‘ ' Daughter, I understand the intense 


CHARLIE'S DISCOVERY. 


155 

interest this visit from Charles Hayne has produced ; in- 
deed, I feel it keenly myself, and I would explain it all 
away if I could. But there are things in one's life that 
even a mother may not tell her child. " 

But, mamma, papa was devoted to you, and 
good " 

^ ^ Heaven help me — yes. " 

'‘And this man — oh, mamma, I like him. I am sure 
he is good and true ! Mamma, did my father look like 
his brother ? " Isabel asked, eagerly. 

“No, my love," the white lips answered. “Your 
father was handsome. Oh, so handsome and so kind." 
And a sob followed the words. 

“Uncle Charles said papa is good " 

“What has he been telling you ? What right had he 
to fill your mind with hopeless fancies } " Adele cried, 
nervously. 

“ Mamma," Isabel cried, “don't compel me to defend 
him against you. I asked him questions, and he told 
me he could not answer them without your permission ; 
but " 

“Yes, I knew Charlie was too honorable. I spoke 
hastily. " 

“He said that papa is miserable without you; but 
that he does not know that he has — me. Just think of 
the horror of that, mamma. I am nearly sixteen years 
old, yet I have never seen my father, and he does not 
know even of my existence ! Mamma can you blame 
me .? There is a shadow over our lives ; tell me what 
it is. You are being punished ; and for what.? You, 
who are so good and true. Why has God sent this 
great grief to you, who have never sinned ? " 

“We cannot tell! God knows best,'^ Adele replied, 
evasively. 


156 HOME. 

‘ ‘ But, mamma, tell me — it is no fault of yours ? ” 

“ Yes,” Adele replied ; “I disobeyed my father.” 

‘ ‘ Disobeyed your father .? Disobeyed grandpa, whom 
you lavish all your mind and time and love upon ? I 
cannot realize that you should have occasion to disobey 
him, he is so loving and indulgent. ” 

“ Isabel, do not ask me any more now,” Adele began, 
faintly, '' I cannot talk of it calmly, dear ; it tears my 
heart to pieces. I cannot talk of it yet.” She had cov- 
ered her face with her hands, and now she dropped them 
into her lap, and met the mournful, disappointed gaze 
of Isabel. Throwing her arms about her daughters 
neck, she cried : '‘Oh, Isabel ! I could smile upon you 
in your coffin if death were releasing you from a life like 
mine. ” 

“ Don't let it agitate you, mamma ; I am sure I shall 
know it some day. I can wait, love.” And Isabel 
kissed the white hands, and arose and kissed her 
mother’s pallid face. 

“ Daughter, your forbearance surpasses my own. 
Listen, love. To-morrow I shall hear all that your 
uncle has to say. I am sure I can discriminate between 
the truth of his assertions, the false suppositions. 
Charles Hayne is honest ; he is superior to anything 
dishonorable, and I can trust. But he does not under- 
stand. He has heard their side of the story ; I am de- 
termined he shall hear mine. Then we shall have an 
opportunity of comparing notes.” 

“ I am delighted, mamma, to see this determination 
in your manner. After you have seen him will you tell 
me— please, mamma, will you ? ” persisted the beautiful 
child. 

“ No, I could not, to save my life ; I could not tell it, 
but, he may — your uncle.” 


CHARLIE^ S DISCOVERY. 


157 

Isabel clasped her arms lovingly about her mother’s 
neck, crying, joyously : 

Oh, you dear, dear little mother ! Oh — see ! I have 
awakened grandpa.” Darting to his side, she cried: 
“ Do you feel better, grandpa.?” 

Turning his face toward the figure kneeling at his side, 
Frederic Moore said, feebly : 

‘'Yes, dear child ; or at least I did feel better before 
I awoke. I had such a strange dream,” he added, 
wearily. 

“ It must have been a beautiful dream, grandpa, for 
you said you felt better before you awoke. Won’t you 
tell it to us ? ” 

Ignoring her query, he asked : 

‘ ‘ Where is your mother, dear ? ” 

“ Here I am, father. Will you not take another 
spoonful of this mixture ? ” Adele asked, anxiously. 

He assented ; and when he had partaken of the 
stimulant, said : 

“Ah, that warms me up and gives me life! Old 
people are cold-blooded — cold-blooded — I apply that 
literally to myself, Adele. ” 

“ Oh, no, father ! This is a disagreeable place for 
invalids, especially rheumatic ones. It seems so damp 
and almost savors of mould,” Adele answered, attempt- 
ing to dispel his erroneous impressions of self this 
morning. 

“Oh, Adele!” he cried, weakly, “/brought this 
exile, these gray locks, and these mournful eyes to you ; 
but for me ” 

Adele laid a white hand upon his mouth, and though 
a flush mantled her brow and cheek, she said, calmly : 

“ Now, father, you are in one of your self-reproving 


HA YNE HOME. 


158 

moods again ; you promised me you would try to over- 
come them/' 

“ I did try. I think, Adele, that old people cannot 
escape the scourges of past folly ; it is lamentably true 
that, ‘ As we sow, so shall we also reap,' " he exclaimed, 
with a sigh. 

‘ ‘ Oh, of course that is true ; but why have you 
awakened from this long, quiet sleep, infused with self- 
reproach ? " 

I had such a peculiar dream ; you know how 
strongly I detest anything savoring of superstition 
They nodded assent. “Well, something has produced 
strange visitants to my imagination of late, and my last 
mad fancy was that we were at home again, and that 
he was pleading for you ; I would not listen, I would 
not hear. On my left stood a beautiful woman clothed 
in green and yellow. Her face was beautiful, but 
wicked. I thought she was the Queen — Hate. On my 
right stood a woman clothed in pure, spotless white. 
Her face was angelic in its loveliness. She was the 
Goddess Justice. She besought me, and conjured me 
to listen to his plea, and promised me all the sweets of 
life if I would give him back his — loss ; I was about 
to yield when Hate, revealing her white teeth by 
an enticing smile, showed me the. humiliation, the 
wounded pride, the shame and disgrace my relenting 
would occasion. I should be steeped in mortification 
at my ignominious defeat. I had at last given way to 
the queen, and banished Justice from my presence, 
when, suddenly, the earth opened and I was carried 
down through the blackest channel. It seemed to me 
I groped for hours and grappled in the dark. When, 
suddenly, I came into a place — oh, I cannot describe 


CHARLIE^ S DISCOVER V, 


159 


its horrors \” He covered his face with his hand, and 
murmured ‘‘horrible, horrible. When I was admitted, 
half-thrust, half-dragged in, and my eyes had become 
accustomed to the fierce, glaring light, the numerous 
fires emitted, I saw before me a vat of seething, boiling 
liquid. On one side stood the Queen, and on the other 
the Goddess ; but they had assumed different personal- 
ities, and were now two men. I will not name them — 
we know them, however. Justice held your child at 
arm's length over that boiling curse, and Hate reached 
out his hand for me to be suspended likewise, and a 
man at the gate informed me that at the sound of a gong 
I should decide between right and wrong. I looked at 
Justice, he said : ‘ Will you save Isabel t ' Then I looked 
at Hate. He merely pointed toward the boiling vat. I 
followed with my eyes, and the lashing liquid was 
boiling letters, and the lettered waves spelled defeat. 
Before I had time to reconsider the gong sounded, and 
/ chose Hate. One moment more and I saw Isabel 
writhing — O God, it was only a dream, but it is my just 
deserts I ” 

He covered his face and moaned, as though in pain. 

Adele tried to soothe him ; Isabel begged to reassure 
him that she was only writhing at his unhappiness, but 
he answered none of their pleas ; an.d when they drew 
his hands from his face, they thought for a moment 
he must be dead, so still and white he seemed ; but 
closer examination showed them that he had only 
fainted. 

Isabel rushed out of the room for help ; and flinging 
open the street-door to send for assistance, she en- 
countered Charles Hayne passing along the street. 
With a gesture of pleasant surprise, speedily followed 


i6o 


HAYNE HOME. 


by a look of consternation at her unaffected alarm, he 
asked, anxiously : 

“ Has anything happened, Isabel ; is your mother 
ill?^’ 

“ No, Uncle Charlie ; it is grandpa. Do come and see, 
him.” 

She had no need to ask, for he was already bounding 
up the stairs. He waited, however, for Isabel to bid 
him open the door, and ‘ then together they passed to 
the inner chamber where Frederic Moore lay, oblivious 
of the tearful attention and restoratives that Adele 
dexterously administered. 

There was no time for exclamations of surprise. Adele 
was only too happy to find her brother-in-law at her 
side, ready to assist in restoring her father, to wonder 
how he happened there so soon. They attended him 
during the entire night. It was long past midnight 
when he opened his eyes and desired to know what had 
happened to him. They told him he had been over- 
come with the exertion of talking, and assured him if 
he would let his mind rest as well as his body, he 
would, in a couple of days, be able to be about, and, 
perhaps, to resume their journey. 

The worst being over, there was nothing to do but 
for Charlie to go ; but this Mr. Moore would not hear ; 
he had taken a strong fancy to “the loyal American,” 
who, he averred, had saved his life. So with not a little 
embarrassment, a peculiar sensation of dread at the long 
silence which he felt assured would ensue (as he knew 
that Adele would say nothing to him in the presence of 
her father and Isabel), he sat down in the deep recess of 
one of the windows. What then was his delight to find 
Frederic Moore in a calm slumber, and Isabel taking her 


CHARLIE^ S DISCO VER Y. 1 6 1 

departure for the rest of the night. He could not hope 
that Adele would retract one iota from her terms of the 
previous day ; he should surely have to wait until four 
o’clock in the afternoon of the day that was then dawn- 
ing. This ieie-a-trte with Adele was to him full of terrors. 
To sit through tedious hours of dawn face to face with 
a woman whose secret he possessed, whom he had 
every reason to believe to have been a dupe to the 
flimsy devices of their mutual brother — and yet dare not 
offer the little consolation he might, because she had 
expressed her desire that he should wait until the 
morrow. 

After an interval of silence following Isabel’s de- 
parture, Adele, growing desperate in this disquietude 
and suspense, broke the stillness, much to the relief of 
both, by moving reluctantly near her companion, and 
saying, in alow, constrained voice, “Charles, I told 
you not to speak to me — of home — until this afternoon. 
I have had time to reflect, and, if you have anything to 
say which may interest me, you may say it. ” The 
effort was so painful ; it cost her so much to say these 
words, that she could scarcely control the voice that 
threatened every minute to break into a scream. 
Charlie moved nearer, and said, softly : 

Adele, I am so brusque in my speech and manner, 
I wish I could command the tenderest words, to tell 
you what has been in my mind for months.” 

“Goon. I know what your manner implies,” she 
added briefly. Then she put up her hand, apparently 
to shade her eyes, but in reality to hide the traces of 
pain which she was sure he would inflict by speaking 
of a past, full of dead dreams. 

“ I must first tell you, Adele, that they did not send 

II 


i 62 


HA YNE HOME. 


me. No' one knows the object of my journey but 
mother, and poor Dick Turner.’' 

“ He does not know ? ” she whispered. 

“ No; he does not know. Adele, that would never 
have happened if I had been there.” 

‘‘ You are good and kind, Charlie, but do you 
control your brother’s affections she said scornfully. 

My brother’s affections were such the?i that I should 
not have wished to interfere. I would I had power to 
control them now ; I should make him forget the past, 
and be happy again ; but that can never be. He will 
always be miserable, Adele, unless you return to him. 
He is so unhappy, so ” 

“Which does he grieve for most, the girl who died, 
or me ?” 

“ Adele! ” Was all that Charlie could say. 

“Ah, Charlie ! I have perfect faith in you; but 
you have heard their story, now you shall hear mine.” 

“ But, Adele, you can’t believe Loll guilty of such a 
deception } ” 

“ I do, though. Ah, it hurt, Charlie — it hurt. God 
alone knows how it hurt me.” She stopped to choke 
back the sobs ; and he allowed her to continue, unin- 
terruptedly. “ But I think, Charlie, if he had been 
honest, and when the girl died, if he had come and 
told me that he was going away, or even sent me the 
briefest note to say so, I should not have felt so grieved. 
But he had acted so strangely, so indifferently, toward 
me for a day or two previous to this, that I was, or 
should have been, half-distracted with fear and pain 
had I not had such faith in him, Charlie, think what a 
contrast ! For two years I had been his wife, only two 
years, and he had never left the house without a gentle 


CITARLIE^S DISCOVERY. 


* 163 

word and tender good-bye. That morning he did not 
even touch my hand in farewell ; that alone made me 
sick — utterly sick with suspense. Then imagine my 
distress at learning that he had actually gone to Mobile 
for a two weeks’ sojourn, without ever sending me a 
line ! Oh, you think me foolishly passionate ; you think 
I ought to have stifled my pain, and shame, and met 
him before I came away. I could not have lived. My 
father offered me that permission; he asked me to 
remain and see him ; but you know how I loved him, 
how I worshipped him ? I should have died at his feet 
if my eyes had rested on his face, while I knew he was 
not mine alone.'' Shivering and moaning she sank back 
upon the seat, from which she had risen during her 
vehement recital. 

“ Who told you he went to Mobile ? " 

“ Dick Turner.'' Charlie looked piercingly into her 
face. 

“ Did Dick tell you that ? " 

“ He brought the message from Lawrence." 

“ But did he deliver it to you .? " 

“ No ! he told Philip first, and then Philip told me.” 

Charlie leaned back in his seat and watched her 
narrowly as she bit her lip and worked her hands 
nervously. Suddenly he threw his head back, and 
asked : 

“ Did you never hear what happened to Loll that 
morning after he left you .? ” 

“ Happened I No," she replied, curiously. 

“Do you know how far he got ? How far the Mobile 
he was so anxious to reach, was from Woodside } " 

“ No,'’ she answered, curtly. 

“ May I tell you their side of the story, Della.? " 


164 


HA YNE HOME. 


“ Yes, you may tell it/’ 

“ I will tell it as it was told me by three parties ; and 
they were all so similar that I can tell it in my owm 
w^ay without deviating from either the one or the 
other.” 

He reflected one moment as to the best method of 
telling it, but the result was, he realized that he had 
but 072 ^ way of telling anything, and that was briefly 
and to the point. 

“ When Lawrence drove away from the house that 
morning,” he said, ‘‘ he, without any intention of going 
anywhere else, drove straight to mother’s. After 
spending some time there, he drove off for the office ; 
but had only gone a little distance from the gate when 
the horse that Jones drove to his w’agon came dash- 
ing down the road, dragging two wheels of the ve- 
hicle. Nobody knows what happened nor how the 
collision occurred, but when mother and Cronie got to 
Lawrence, he was lying in the ditch, half dead. They 
took him to mother’s, and then they decided to tell you 
he had gone away until the worst was over, for they 
dreaded the effect of the shock it would, of course, give 
you. The morning after you left, Adele, they drove 
over to Woodside to bring you to Lawrence — but you 
were gone. And while you bemoaned your husband’s 
infidelity, he was lying two miles from you with a 
broken leg, crushed ribs, and a gash on his brow 
that rendered him senseless to everything for three 
days, and ” 

“ He had not gone P My heaven ! ” She slid from 
the chair to the floor, and buried her face in her hands, 
but did not even moan. Charlie, thinking she had 
fainted, ran wildly around the room, crying: “Merci- 


EXl^LANA TIONS, 1 6 5 

ful heaven, I told it too suddenly. I knew Td make a 
failure.^’ 

Snatching up a bottle of sal volatile, he attempted to 
draw her hands away from her face ; the touch aroused 
her ; she threw herself at his feet and besought him to 
tell her all, adding : “O, Charlie, can you imagine how 
sweet it is to me to know that he had not gone away — 
that he had not left me ? Tell me all ; did he grieve for 
me ? Does he love me yet ? ” 

Yet while he told her of the disappointment, the 
heartache, the silver hair, and the face lined with care- 
furrows, her face assumed, instead of the eager light, a 
pallid hue of suffering and pain, and the moment he 
had finished she cried, despairingly ; 

But the child, Charlie — I have proof \k12X the 

child ” and she fainted dead away. The moment 

of happiness, followed by the ghost of sorrow, was 
more than she could bear. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

EXPLANATIONS. 

So draw up the papers, lawyer, and I’ll go home to-night, 

And read the agreement to her and see if it’s all right ; 

And then in the momin’ I’ll sell to a tradin’ man I know 

And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I’ll go. 

— Will M. Carleton. 

Charles was obliged to summon Isabel ; her mother’s 
unconsciousness was so obstinate that nothing he could 
devise produced the least improvement. When he in- 
formed her of her mother’s condition she came immedi- 
ately into the room, and he was amazed to find that she 
had not changed her gown even for a loose neglige. 


66 


HAYNE HOME, 


Isabel, unlike the generality of girls took her mother’s 
sudden indisposition very quietly, though she did not 
essay to check the tears that rolled down her face. She 
set about the task of restoring her in the most skillful 
fashion, all the time murmuring words of sympathy 
and affection, of which, however, Charlie caught but a 
few. . 

When daylight came and the city was beginning to 
show signs of activity, Adele opened her eyes and spoke 
quite coherently to her surprised attendants. Charlie 
arose and went to her side. 

“You are better, Adele, and will, perhaps, need me 
no more, so I will leave you ; but I wouldn’t assume 
too much responsibility for a while. I shall be near 
enough to come at a moment’s notice, and will be glad 
to do all that I can for you.” 

‘ ‘ It was horribly silly in me ; don’t think that I am 
so weak as to faint at every surprise. I want to finish 
our conversation, and you have not heard my story 
yet. ” 

“ I don’t want to hear it till you are stronger.” 

“Come at noon to-day; I shall be strong enough.” 

He passed out of the house, and Isabel sat beside her 
mother and bathed her face, and soothed her as tenderly 
as Adele had done to her child in infancy. 

The sun was making rapid strides in his ascension 
when Frederic M'oore awoke. He did not call for at- 
tendance, but Isabel heard the long sigh and yawn, and 
went softly to his door. 

“Good-morning, grandpa. Shall I call Lorenzo to 
help you with your toilet ? ” 

“Yes, my dear; I think I will try to get up this 
morning.” 


EX PLANA TIONS. 1 6 7 

“O grandpa, don’t do it; it will surely make you 
worse. ” 

He only smiled for an answer, and Isabel went to 
summon Lorenzo, the man who had assumed the duties 
of valet and attendant since their arrival. While he 
gratified the wants of the sick man, who found, after a 
great effort, that he would not be able to arise, Adele 
and Isabel were making fresh toilets in the adjoining 
chamber. 

The morning passed away, and noon was fast ap- 
proaching. Isabel had not asked one question regard- 
ing the cause of her mother’s sudden illness, but had 
divined the knowledge that it resulted from her interview 
with Charles. 

Adele reclined in a deep chair near a window, turning 
from which to her daughter, she said : 

“ Isabel, I see your uncle coming toward the house ; 
after you have spoken to him will you let me see him 
alone, dear .? ” 

“Certainly, mamma; but I shall soon grow jealous 
of Uncle Charlie, if you continue to prefer his society to 
mine,” Isabel replied, laughingly. 

Adele had no time to answer, for a soft tap on the 
door brought the blood into her cheeks, and set her 
heart to throbbing wildly. Charles was pleased to find 
her so much improved, and after Isabel, left the room, 
closing the door between the sick chamber and the bou- 
doir, where they were obliged to receive their guest, 
she went into her own little room, and opened the door 
leading into her grandfather’s room, so that she might 
hear him if he called. 

When Adele and Charles were once more alone, the 
former said, hesitatingly : 


i68 


HA YNE HOME. 


“Charlie, did they tell you why I left them?” 

“Loll told me he believed the child had something 
to do with it, as he could imagine no other reason under 
the sun why. you left. ” 

“ He did not deny the fact of there being a child?” 

“Deny it? Certainly not. Why they adopted her.” 

“ Adopted her — that child ? ” 

“ Yes ; what else should they do with her ? Send her 
to the poorhouse ? I tell you, Adele, the child, whoever 
she was, belonged to a good family ; and Lawrence 
promised the dying mother that he would find the baby 
a home among well-bred people. She was perfectly 
frantic at the thought of leaving her Child among the 
class of people that she died among.” 

“And you believe, Charlie, that what they told you is 
true?” 

“ My dear Della, what object could Loll have in tell- 
ing me a falsehood regarding the affair ? ” 

“I can think of none; but, Charlie, you maybe sure 
I should never have left my husband, had I not proof 
sufficient to convince me of his guilt. ” 

“What proof had you?” he asked, waxing impatient. 

“I have a telegram announcing that he had sent this 
woman a money order, and that he would meet her 
Thursday. Then I had the child’s picture, with its name 
written on the margin, and a paper containing an an- 
nouncement of its birth. My father, to make sure that 
these things were true, went to the inn and inquired 
into the circumstances, and,” she whispered, passion- 
ately and hoarsely, they swore that the dying woman 
said that was Lawrence' s child! ” 

“Della, I don’t doubt your truthfulness, but I do 
doubt your father’s sagacity in this instance. Lawrence 


EXPLANA TIONS. 


169 

said the woman did say that the child was his to do with 
as he thought best. Don’t you know, Della, that these 
poor ignorant people hate us because we are what they 
choose to call the ‘ gentry ? ’ They enjoyed that inci- 
dent, they enjoyed the jealousy that prompted you to 
leave Lawrence, and for weeks he was subjected to the 
most cruel taunts and slurs, which he was powerless to 
resent because he was too honorable to fight, and the 
truth is the truth. Your father showed himself a hero. 
Adele, when he threw away his anger at you and es- 
poused your cause, but he made a most humiliating 
mistake when he interfered secretly ; he subjected you 
all to the severest censure and ridicule when he carried 
you off in that underhand fashion, and made you the 
subject of all that scandal.” 

“ How could I have borne it, Charlie — the disgrace t 
If they thought I was not strong enough to bear the 
shock of the accident, how did they presume I should 
endure the thought of his faithlessness .? They knew I 
must learn it some time. ” 

He did not answer her. He asked, instead : “ Have 
you the picture and papers you spoke of.?” 

Her face clouded: “Yes,”^he replied. will 

show them to you. Perhaps my desertion will not 
seem so groundless to you then.” She arose in a digni- 
fied manner, and, turning to a small, portable escritoire 
drew a key from her pocket and turned it in the lock. 
Drawing forth a photograph, and handing it to him, 
said, defiantly: “Whose eyes are those, and whose 
name .? ” 

His face flushed when he read the name, then turned 
a livid hue, as he threw his hand to his head and cried : 

My baby! Oh, Clara, Clara ! ” And his head fell 


70 


YNE HOME. 


forward on his arms that dropped on the window-sill. 
He was shaken with sobs. He heeded not Adele’s 
presence; he cared not for eyes nor ears. He was 
weeping the first tears that had scalded his cheeks since 
he had grown to manhood. He was holding in his 
hand a picture of the baby that had, years ago, cooed 
his name and kissed his face ; whose chubby hands 
had pulled his hair in playful glee. He was weeping 
for the girl who had abandoned him because his par- 
ents were country people. Adele had never seen grief 
like that! Involuntarily, the question arose in her 
mind : “ Did Lawrence regret her so? and, woman- 
like, wondered how Clara could have left a love like 
this I She would not witness his grief ; she would go 
away and leave him alone with his sorrow. She turned 
to leave the room and encountered her father, in dress- 
ing-gown and slippers, standing white with terror, star- 
ing at the man before him. She laid her hand upon his 
lips and beckoned him away. 

. When they reached the inner chamber, and Adele 
had softly closed the door, she whispered to her father : 

“How much did you hear? ” 

“I heard it all.” 

“All ? Father, have you been there long ? ” 

“No. The door was closed; but you forgot that 
window between the rooms, and I lay here until I 
thought I should go mad. I knew his voice was that 
of the American gentleman, and it did not take me long 
to recognize him. I went into the room just as you 
handed him that picture. ” 

The moments that followed this conversation were 
moments fraught with painful sympathy for the man 
whose past had been thrown before her eyes in this un- 


EX PLANA TIONS. 


171 

happy fashion, and, mingled with that, was the misery 
remorse inflicted. What turbulence and sorrow had 
their rashness occasioned! Yet it was such as could 
not be undone. The page containing this sad history 
could not be turned back and rewritten. They must 
go on — on — read the book through. But they could 
atone, in a measure, for their misguided , work ; but 
whether or not they would remains for them to tell. 

Adele implored her father to lie down and rest after 
this exciting scene. He answered her almost harshly : 

“ Rest, child.? I shall know no rest until I learn the 
whole of this thing. For months I have been haunted 
by a desire to hear from home — to know what changes 
had occurred in all these years. I am consumed with 
a desire to go back and die there. I can’t die at peace 
without once more looking upon the home place, and 
your whitening hair, Della, is a scourge, a ■ sword, 
pricking and lashing me. Your baby stands here al- 
most a woman, yet she does not know her father ; 
should she meet him to-day she would not know him. 
I am getting old so fast — so fast — and I can’t die here. 
Do you know why I stay away .? why I roam restlessly 
hither and thither, too ill to paint.? Yet my illness is 
only remorseful regret. Why don’t I go back ? Be- 
cause the abominable pride and headstrong habits that 
grieved your mother to death are chaining me here. 
How can I face them all after all these years .? How can 
I go back and feel their unspoken triumph. Frederic 
Moore, the purse-proud aristocrat, has had to succumb 
— to give up and acknowledge himself defeated. O, 

Della, I did it all ; yet I am powerless to atone for ” 

He broke down, utterly exhausted. Adele, not daring 
to say a word lest his pride should, as usual, rebel, sat 


HA YNE HOME. 


172 

perfectly rigid on the side of the bed. Her white 
hands locked and unlocked restlessly. He looked up : 
“Adele, why don’t you chide me.?” 

“Father, we have both acted unwisely. But tell me 
one thing : Did you know, when we left home, that 
Lawrence was so near ? ” 

“No, no I Before heaven, Della, I thought him 
miles away.” 

“Then I have nothing to chide you for. You have 
been all that an indulgent father could be. My child 
and I have never wanted for anything that you could 
give us, and you brought me away from shame, or 
what we thought meant shame. You did it for my 
good.” 

“Yes, and to gratify my vengeance, too. I thought 
it would taste so sweet to make your husband feel what 
I felt when he took you away from me. O, Adele, you 
have your mother’s sweet, trusting nature. I was cruel 
to her ; yet she never gave me anything but kindness, 
and I adored her at first. So long as she was a defiant, 
tantalizing girl, I adored her ; but after I married her 
she was afraid of me, and it made me tyrannical. I could 
not help it. I never realized what a treasure I possessed 
until, with her last gasping breath, she turned her eyes, 
so full of reproach and entreaty, upon me, and asked 
me to be good to our baby. And this is how I have 
kept my promise ! This is how I have treated her 
child ! ” he cried, vehemently, stroking A dele’s gray 
hair. 

“Father, he is walking about the room. I must go 
to him. Calm yourself, and lie down. You must not 
exert yourself so. I will go and talk to him. Think 
of the poor boy’s grief.” 


EXPLANA TIONS. 


173 

Her father threw himself upon the bed with a deep 
sigh, and Adele went into the boudoir and found Charles 
walking restlessly to and fro. He looked like a differ- 
ent man. He might have been ten years older. His 
face was swollen and haggard, and perfectly livid * his 
eyes were bloodshot and sunken, and it would seem 
that a whole night of weeping could scarcely produce 
a greater change than this one hour had done. He came 
forward and grasped her hands, and said, gently : 

Can you forgive me my weakness ? ” 

“ How can you ask, Charles ? Could I ask for 
greater evidence of my own blindness than what you 
call your weakness ? O Charlie, what you must have 
suffered ! ” 

Della, I lost my wife years and years ago ; but the 
first hour in all that time that I forgot my grief was 
when I first conceived the idea of bringing Lawrence’s 
wife back to him. Shall I tell you the story of my life, 
Adele .? ’’ 

‘‘ If it will not be too great a pain, I should like to 
hear it.” 

When I went away from home I went direct to a 
resort in the Adirondacks. A few days after that I met 
Clara Holbrook, and was completely fascinated with her 
beauty, and before a fortnight had passed we were 
engaged. Her father was the most selfish man in the 
world, and when I asked for Clara he drove me away 
almost brutally ; he left me no hope nor chance to as- 
sure him that our family was as good as his. So Clara 
and I ran away and were married. We travelled from 
one place to another, and were, I think, supremely 
happy. I intended, day after day, to write home and 
tell the family of my marriage, but I knew they would 


174 


HAYNE HOME . 


think it strange if I did not bring my bride home to 
them ; and the truth was, Della, my wife had the most 
high-flown notions, and I lingered away, hoping to sub- 
due them some before taking her home, for I knew that if 
she happened to disdain anything, instead of ignoring it,' 
she would make everyone around unhappy by throwing 
it up to us. I saw these things, but while they did not 
in the least diminish my affection for her I could not 
subject dear, good mother, to the petty annoyances that 
I knew Clara would occasion. So time passed along 
till little Florence came, and then, throwing all 
obstacles aside, in my parental pride, I told her we 
would go to Hayne Home and spend a few weeks. 
She was perfectly delighted with the idea, and asked 
me numberless questions about my family : to which 
my truthful answers seemed to satisfy her, until she 
asked me if ‘ Hayne Home ’ was my mother’s summer 
home. 

“ I explained to her that it was a homestead embrac- 
ing two or three residences, and that it was not only a 
summer-home but all the home my mother had, and 
that she lived there the year round. ” He stopped and 
ran his fingers through his hair, and sighed distressedly. 
“ Poor little Clara ! it was not her fault ; it was the 
way her father had brought her up — these foolish 
notions 1 At the idea of my mother not having a city 
home, and belonging to a ‘ circle ’ of blue bloods, she 
became perfectly hysterical, and declared that while 
she had breath she would never cross the threshold of 
my country-home ; and contended that I had deceived 
her, and that I was nothing but an old farmer, which 
fact I took no pains to deny, and, after a warm conten- 
tion, we separated, and I never saw her afterward. I 


EXFLANA TIONS. 


175 

did not seek to know where she went. I never should 
have followed her, but had she returned to me I should 
have taken her back only too gladly. Poor Clara ! She 
never dreamed that Providence would cast her child at 
my brother's mercy, and that my mother would dress her 
for the grave. I presume she did not like the name of 
Hayne, so she called herself Holbrook, but had the good- 
ness not to rob my child of its rightful name. We called 
our baby Florence Holbrook Hayne, she has it written 
here, ‘ Florence Hayne Holbrook.' Dear, impetuous 
little Clara ! " 

“ Then you must have seen your own daughter last 
summer.” 

“ No, Adele, I did not see her. She was travelling 
with the Russells, a family who occupied Phil's house, 
and was somewhere in this country at the time. 
Wouldn't it seem strange if that should have been my 
Florence, whom Isabel met in the tower at Lucca .? '' 

“ It would, indeed, seem strange." Adele had for- 
gotten, in her unselfishness, that she had a trouble of 
her own. She was mindful, always, of the sufferings 
of others, and, finding that Charles suffered, too, she 
instantly forgot her own pain ; but by-and-by it surged 
upon her in all its wofulness, and how it did sting ! 
But the thought that Lawrence had been true, and that 
she had caused him to suffer, made her sick with re- 
gret. They had been silent for some minutes, when 
Ad^le said : “ But, Charlie, who is this Lawrence that 
sent her the money " 

“I can think of no one but the family solicitor, 
whose name was George Lawrence. The top of this 
message is torn off, so that I couldn’t see where it was 
dated ; but most likely she had started for Mobile ; that s 
where he lives." 


176 


HAYNE HOME. 


“ What shall we do, Charlie? I could give my life 
to repair the wrong I have done, but my duty will be 
a divided one. I shall not leave father, and I am afraid 
he will not consent to return.” 

“ Adele, if Lawrence had done you this wrong; 
nothing would daunt him until he had tried to atone for 
it. Will you not return to him, Della? ” 

“ Do you believe he would forgive father ? ” 

“Who, Lawrence? Can you doubt it? But would 
your father forgive him ? ” he whispered. 

“ I think he would. My father is anxious to return 
home, but whether or not he would desire us united, I 
cannot tell ; so I shall abide by the decision of the 
two ; if father will forgive, and soothe his animosity to- 
ward Lawrence, I will return ; and then if Lawrence 
will do the same by father I will go back to him. 
That is only fair. Was ever fate so sad as mine ? ” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

There was light in my eye when I saw the green woof 
Of old elm trees half screening the turreted roof ; 

I grew strong as I passed o’er the daisy-girt track. 

And the Newfoundland sentinel welcomed me back. 

But the pulse of my joy was most warmly sincere 
When I met the old faces familiar and dear. 

— E/iza Cook, 

At home there were several changes perceptible. 
After Dick died perhaps Aunt Prue grew more taciturn, 
but her heart was just as capable of generous impulses 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


177 


as ever. She lived her quiet life with John, rarely ever 
leaving the house, excepting to make a charitable visit 
to the sick or the poor. 

Lawrence had moved to the city, and had now an 
excellent practice ; his lot looked most favorable to a 
worldly eye. Good financial circumstances, a beautiful 
and accomplished daughter, and it appeared that noth- 
ing was amiss in the handsome home. But his life 
was empty, and nothing could fill the void that his loss 
occasioned. Florence was in her eighteenth year and 
would soon complete her collegiate course. Dayne had 
gone to a famous school to complete his education, and 
Walter Reynolds had entered upon his second year in 
a theological institution. 

It was a night in June, and through the silver moon- 
light a figure walked rapidly from the village in the 
direction of Wicksburr. Reaching the gate, whose old, 
rusty latch flew open at his touch as though eager to 
express its glad surprise, he stood for a moment with 
his head resting upon his hand to quiet the tumultuous 
beating of his heart. Never had Charles Hayne expe- 
rienced the wild throbbings of hope, fear, joy, and sad- 
ness mingled together, as he did now, standing, as he 
thought, upon the selvedge of his fate. What should 
he say to her, this daughter whom he did not know ? 
How should he ever win her affection, after leaving her 
all these years to the mercy of his family who had been 
so good, so kind, and indulgent that he despaired of 
ever winning even her respect. If he could only find 
an entrance to the house where he might first look upon 
the face of his daughter, he felt that all would be easy. 

At length he left the gate and strolled languidly over 
the gravelled walk shining white and cold in the moon- 

12 


HA YNE HOME. 


178 

light. He tapped softly on the door. John Warwich 
opened it and exclaimed, joyfully: “Bless the boy! 
Mother, here’s Charlie, ’’and never let go his clasp of the 
cold hand, until they reached the room where Mrs. War- 
wich sat. Such exchanges of surprise and gladness- ! 
Charles thought they would never end, and allow him 
to inquire after the child who was not theirs but his 
own. 

“Are you alone this evening .? ” he asked. 

“Oh, yes, son, we live alone now. Lawrence is 
practicing in the city, and Florence lives with him, and 
goes to school,” his mother replied, little dreaming that 
his heart had fallen like a lump of lead in his bosom. 

“Gone to the city ? and you two are alone ? It must 
be very lonely,” Charles answered, and wondered what 
excuse he could invent to get away from the house to 
dispel his disappointment. 

“We thought at first we could scarcely endure it, but 
we were anxious to give Florence every opportunity 
that was available, so we sent her to school. I don’t 
think Lawrence could have been persuaded to go with- 
out her,” John Warwich replied. 

“ He is still attached to her.? ” inquired Charlie, fev- 
erishly. 

“Completely bound up in her. I often think it un- 
just — this fate of his,” Mrs. Warwich exclaimed with a 
sigh. 

“Mother, I told you I would not come back until 1 
had spent my last cent or found Adele .? ” 

“Yes, and, my son, I can almost read the result of 
your wanderings in your white, haggard face,” she said, 
brokenly. With a forced smile he said : 

“ So you think I’ve come back penniless ? ” 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 


179 

“You have not accomplished the object of your jour- 
ney.” 

“Oh, but I did, mother,” he replied, drearily, and she 
leaned to him alfrightedly, and asked : 

“Then what is it? Something has happened, or you 
are ill.” 

“I found them safe and well. She has a daughter 
as beautiful as a houri, born before they sailed for Italy. ” 

The gloom in his eyes frenzied her. She clasped his 
hands and said, tearfully : “But what was amiss? She 
would not come, perhaps.” 

Charlie got up and walked about the room. Never 
had he felt such unconquerable pain. Never had Mrs. 
Warwich experienced such torturing doubt since the 
day Adele abandoned her boy. At length Charles 
said : 

“Mother and father, you have never found to whom 
this child whom you have nourished belongs? ” 

“No ! ” they both answered, in amazement. 

“ I found her father, and he is going to claim her.” 

John Warwich sprang to his feet and cried ; 

“He shall not have her ! ” 

Charles smiled grimly, and answered : 

“Do you know the story the dying mother told you ? 
Well, that was perfectly true ; they had quarrelled be- 
cause this sweet little wife had foolish fancies regard- 
ing social and fashionable life, and scorned the young 
husband, whom she called an old farmer ; and I assure 
you, mother, the husband never knew till I went to Italy 
that his wife had died. He had always kept his sol- 
icitor advised of his whereabouts, so that, in case this 
beautiful, spoiled child-wife ever desired to be reunited, 
she would know how to find him. Mother,” he said. 


i8o 


HA YNE HOME. 


kneeling beside her, “that beautiful girl-wife, on whose 
grave you have planted purple passion-flowers, was my 
wife, and Florence is my daughter and his head, cov- 
ered with glossy black locks, streaked with gray, drop- 
ped upon his mothers knee, and sobs that nearly broke 
his heart, shook the strong, manly frame. John War- 
wich left the room ; his wife bowed over her son, but 
uttered no sound. All her heart was poured out in a 
mother’s prayer for the boy who had suffered so long, 
so silently, and alone. 

How she loved him as he knelt there. How, more 
than ever, she loved the child who had said she was 
the prettiest grandma she knew. She forgot Lawrence’s 
sorrow, the sorrow that had whitened her hair, and 
made her sad for all these years. She forgot that now. 
Surely her sympathy might justly wander from his 
grief a little while, when all these years this boy had 
suffered too, and though his grief was unspoken, may 
it not have been greater, housed up in his heart that 
threatened to break .? 

When he no longer sobbed, and the outpouring of his 
grief had relieved him of some of his pent-up woe, he 
arose and walked to the window. 

His mother followed him, and laid her hand upon his 
arm. He looked down into her face, all wet with tears, 
and his heart smote him. Tenderly he drew her to him, 
and in tones as soft as Lawrence’s, and far sweeter 
because they were rare, said : “Ah, mother, your boys 
have brought you nothing but sorrow ! ” 

“ Sorrow for their sorrow. I wish I could bear it for 
them.” 

“Don’t grieve for us, mother. Our shoulders are 
broader than yours. It seems to me,” he said, dream- 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


l8l 

ily, “that Lolhs sorrow would have grown light, being 
borne by you.” 

She smiled so kindly that he wished, for once, he pos- 
sessed the impetuousness of his brother, that he might 
tell her how dearly he loved her. But he could only 
lead her to a seat and sit down beside her. 

“What would you like me to do first, Charlie 

“ Send for Florence. I cannot rest until I have seen 
her.” 

‘ ‘ Very well, my son. I will send for her in the morn- 
ing. But stay, this is Friday ; they will be down to- 
morrow morning, anyway. They nearly always spend 
Saturda)^ here.” 

“Mother, in my selfishness I have forgotten to tell you 
about Adele. They are coming back home.” 

“To Lawrence .? she said, joyfully. 

“Conditionally. She has succeeded in winning her 
father’s forgiveness for Lawrence, and he is quite will- 
ing to live at peace with all of us ; but Adele stolidly 
refuses -to leave her father, if our family refuse to ac- 
cept his efforts to undo the wrong his rashness caused.” 

“Bless me ! Each and every one of us will be only 
too glad to accept his offer of friendship. Adele must 
possess an unusually strong influence if she has suc- 
ceeded in weaning him from his prejudices.” 

“She has done it, and, mother, he is as agreeable as 
any old gentleman I ever met, and he treated me in 
the most hospitable manner. I will tell you all about 
my meeting, and subsequent relations with them, and 
then you must go to bed ; you are pale and tired.” 

Notwithstanding his concern for his mother’s welfare, 
it was long after midnight before they separated for the 
night. 


i 82 


HA YNE HOME. 


As they went through the hall, Mrs. Warwich stopped 
and closed the parlor-door, glancing apprehensively at 
Charles as she did so. The reason was, that over the 
piano hung a large painting of Florence’s mother, a 
copy of the miniature in the locket. His mother knew' 
that picture would revive all his sorrow and loss, and 
he had endured enough for one night. 

Charles did not sleep for hours ; he sat brooding over 
his strange fate, until his room seemed like a prison 
house. Opening his door, he softly stole, carrying his 
lamp, along the hall and down the stairway until he came 
to the parlor ; he would set his lamp in there, and take 
a stroll in the garden. He threw the door of the richly- 
furnished parlor back, and, crossing to a table, set the 
lamp down, and turned once more to the door. His 
eyes strayed to the picture and remained fixed upon it, 
until it seemed to him the lips must have moved, they 
must surely have murmured his name. The beautiful, 
passionate face that had nestled so near his own, whose 
color grew deeper at his approach, and the full, crimson 
lips that had died, begging ‘‘Chad to forgive,” all came 
back and stood before him. How long he stood there 
he did not know ; it must have been hours, for when he 
recovered from the dream the picture had brought back 
to him, he was leaning against the piano, and his whole 
being, it seemed, had been wrapt in slumber. His eyes 
burned, and his limbs trembled beneath his weight 
He staggered blindly to his room, and threw himself 
upon the bed. Almost immediately he fell into a hard, 
dreamless sleep. 

It was late in the forenoon when he came downstairs. 
The family had all gone about their respective duties and 
inclinations. He sat down to his solitary breakfast, and 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 183 

was informed by Jane, still in the service of the War- 
wichs, that his mother had been called away that morn- 
ing, but would be at home before noon. 

- On the whole, he was glad of it. His head ached, 
and his mind was so unsettled, he felt he could not talk 
to her, and promising himself a quiet smoke in the gar- 
den, he passed through the hall to take another look at 
the picture. Outside the house, just a few feet from the 
porch, he saw a young girl culling flowers. She had 
on her arm a pretty wicker basket, half filled with roses 
and geraniums. On her head was a large, white sun- 
hat that shaded her face, but could not hide the willful 
curls that blew about her. face in sweet confusion. She 
was singing softly to herself, and did not hear Charles’ 
footsteps on the gravel until he stood so near he might 
have touched her hand. He did not speak to her ; he 
was content to gaze upon this fair child who looked like 
him, yet did not. As though his very presence spoke 
to her, she turned and saw him. Her face lighted up 
in a bright smile ; she extended her hand in a most cor- 
dial manner, and said : 

You are Uncle Charlie ? I am Florence. Grandma 
told me you arrived last evening, and were not well. 
I was going to arrange these flowers to adorn your break- 
fast-table. ” 

He stood looking at her, thinking it the saddest thing 
that ever happened for him to listen without comment 
to his own precious child calling him “Uncle Charlie.” 

She was comparing him, in her mind, with Lawrence. 
Never had she smiled at Lawrence when he did not smile 
in return. Yet his brother had not even a greeting for 
her. He was so very pale that she began to chide her- 
self for her hasty opinion. 


HA YNE HOME, 


184 

“You look ill, Uncle Charlie. The sun is too warm. 
You—" 

“No, child, the sun does not affect me. There is 
no one here to entertain me this morning but you. 
Won’t you come and talk to me ? ’’ he asked, gently. 

“Indeed I will. I hope, though, you won’t call me 
chatterer, like papa does. He says when I cease talk- 
ing he always feels dizzy.’’ 

“I shall love to hear you talk. Did your — did my 
brother not come with you .? ’’ 

“No. Papa will come down on the evening train. 
He will be so happy to see you. I was very sorry, 
Uncle Charlie, that I did not get to see you last summer. 
You ran away so soon. We are not going to let you 
off again. ’’ 

“Are you perfectly happy here, Florence 

“ Ye — s. I am happy. You, of course, know how I 
happen to be here } I should be perfectly happy but 
for the uncertainty of my identity. You can’t imagine 
what a terrible Sahara my mind seems when I try to 
imagine who I am," she said, gloomily. 

“Should you wish to leave here in case you found 
your family } ’’ 

“No, I should not want to leave here. I love grand- 
ma better than anyone in the world ; and then ’’ 

She stopped, and blushed crimson. 

“ And then — what ? ’’ 

“Oh, nothing," she answered, lightly. 

“That is a pretty locket you wear,’’ Charlie remarked, 
feeling that he must take it from her neck and look 
upon the pictured face within. 

“ Yes ; that is all I possess of my mother’s treasures. 
Her picture " She hesitated, knowing that beside 


FA TITER AND DA UGHTER, 1 85 

her mother’s face was another, which she felt she could 
not explain. 

“ Is her picture inside.? Pray, Florence, let me see 
it ? ” 

She could not refuse. While her cheeks grew warm 
and her hands trembled, she unclasped the tiny chain 
and gave it to him. 

He opened it, and looked first upon the boyish face 
that smiled back at him. 

“Who is this?” he asked. 

“Oh, that is cousin Dayne Warwich,” she replied, 
nonchalantly. 

“Oh ! ” was all he said; but he knew then her love 
was not all her own to give him when he should ask it. 

“That is my mother. Was she not beautiful ? Papa 
had this picture copied for my birthday. It hangs in 
the parlor. I think my mother’s face was lovely. I 
have always regretted that my father’s picture was not 
in here. I think, though, it must have been, because 
the lining of the locket looks so scratched, and, you see, 
this gold margin is dented. Well, that was done when 
I got the locket, so I am sure there must have been a 
picture here.” 

“May I lift Dayne’s picture out ? ” he asked, with 
apparent indifference. 

“Yes; but you won’t find anything but a few 
scratches. ” 

He paid no heed, but quietly lifted from its place the 
picture of Dayne, and examined minutely the inside of 
the locket. Taking his knife, he inserted the blade be- 
neath the paper that looked so scratched, lifted it out, 
and, handing the locket to Florence, said : 

“There is your father.” 


HAYNE HOME. 


1 86 

The picture was not a miniature, as was Clara’s. 
It was a photograph, unmounted, and he concluded 
that, in a moment of anger, Clara had thrust it out of 
sight by pressing it flat against the locket, and hiding 
it with the lining. Florence looked upon it spellbound ; 
first at the picture, then at Charles. After a lapse of 
some seconds, she said: “This looks precisely like a 
picture that grandma has of you,’' He almost sprang 
to his feet at this unexpected reception of the picture. 

Me ?” he cried. 

“Yes, you.” -And before he could detain her she 
had bounded from his side and across the lawn to the 
house, where she grasped the picture from the table, 
and, instead of going out again, she stopped at the 
window and compared the two pictures. Then, fairly 
panting in her excitement, she peered through the laces 
that draped the windows at the face of the man she had 
left sitting upon the garden seat. She looked at his 
face, then at the locket. Repeating this several times, 
she said to herself : 

“Look at the similarity in the eyebrows. See how 
the hair grows high over the temples ; and the straight 
nose. Oh, oh I” she cried, rubbing her hands, “if 
that beard was only away so that I could see if this 
lovely mouth was there. And he acted so strangely, 
I thought his mind wandered. He knew all about 
this locket ; he asked me if I should want to leave here. 
Oh, God, grant my prayer, and let me see my father ! ” 
She could not go out in this excited manner. She 
stood tapping the floor with her pretty foot, and, after a 
few minutes, looked out of the window, but the seat 
was empty. Charles had gone. She was disappointed 
sorely, and, in her chagrin, turned petulantly toward 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 187 

the door, and, there, like a phantom, stood the sub- 
ject of the picture she held in her hand. 

White to the lips, she said : “ What did you hear.?” 

‘ ‘ I heard your prayer. ” And he was whiter than 
she. 

“Then tell me. Are you my father.?” 

“ I am your father.” With a glad bound she leaped 
to the arms outstretched to receive her, crying, hysteri- 
cally : “I knew it — I felt it. Oh, papa, papa !” and 
finished with a sob. He held her close clasped in his 
embrace. This girl, who an hour ago he had not seen, 
was standing with her arms about his neck, and her 
head pillowed upon his bosom, where Clara’s had lain, 
and now Clara’s daughter was standing in her mother’s 
place, and the mother’s sweet, hazel eyes were looking 
down upon the twain from her burnished frame upon 
the wall. At last curiosity took possession of Florence, 
and she asked : 

‘ ‘ Papa, why have you left me here so long .? Why 
did you never come .? ” 

“ My love, it is such a long story that I should not 
have time to tell the half. But I only learned a month 
ago that you were my baby Florence, and I came with 
all possible dispatch to you, to claim you, dear.” 

‘ ‘ I shall be so happy, having found you, that I can 
wait to hear the story. There comes grandma. Let’s 
go and tell her,” she cried, joyously, attempting to drag 
him toward the door. But he felt ihat this hour was 
too sacred for even his mother to invade, so he said : 

“ Grandma knows it, dear.” 

. “ Grandma knows it ? Oh, I’m so glad ! No won- 
der she said this morning she hoped I would love 
Charlie as he deserved. ” 


i88 


//A YNE HOME. 


They sat down together upon a fauieuil, and, with 
clasped hands, exchanged thoughts and sentiments too 
sacred for the ears of a third party, and their conversa- 
tion was sweetened by the presence of the picture — the 
picture of the young mother who died begging Chad to 
forgive her. 

When noon came, and dinner was called, Charles 
walked proudly into the dining-room with Florence 
leaning upon his arm. Mrs. Warwich did not see them, 
and said to Jane : “Go and look through the garden. 
Florence has certainly not heard the bell.” 

“ Oh, yes, she has grandma, but she has found her 
treasure. ” 

“You have told her.?” Mrs. Warwich asked Charles, 
tearfully, but with the sweetest smile. 

“ Partly ; but, mother, she asked me first.” 

Congratulations from all, even Jane, followed, and 
then they sat down to a dinner which was appetizing 
enough, but no one seemed tempted to partake of it. 
Dinner was a farce, and so they repaired to the garden, 
and congregated in a shady nook, where Lawrence found 
them at four o’clock, when he came lounging gracefully 
across the garden, wondering who that tall fellow was 
who stood with his hand on Florence’s shoulder. 

Lawrence joined the party amid loud and happy wel- 
comes. Florence went forward to meet him and kissed 
him warmly. Lawrence said, gaily, after the surprise 
of meeting Charles had exhausted itself : 

“ Floss, I had a notion to get just a little jealous 
when I saw this fellow with his hand on your shoulder. 
But we could not be jealous of your uncle, could we.? ” 
and playfully tapped her cheek with his cane. 

Florence was, for once, speechless. She looked at 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


189 

Charlie, and, as plainly as words could have done, her 
eyes besought him to undeceive her benefactor. Charles 
took the hint, and, turning to the trio and seating him- 
self, said: ‘'If you will grant us an hour I’d like to 
talk to Loll.” And they went away, but not until 
Florence had left a kiss upon Lawrence’s brow, and, 
passing to the back of Charles’ seat, kissed the lips that 
turned to meet her own. 

Lawrence said, playfully: “Here, minx, that is not 
fair. You kissed him on the lips.” And, with an as- 
sumption of naturalness, she retorted: “Because he 
put up his mouth to be kissed, and you didn’t.” But her 
heart was full ; yet it was not heavy. She seemed pos- 
sessed of but the one idea — that Charlie was her father ; 
and, dearly as she had loved Lawrence, she begrudged 
the minutes that kept her father from her side. 

Charlie began with his departure from home in search 
of Adele. He told everything just as it happened, ex- 
cepting that which related to Florence. He told him 
of the conditions upon which Adele had promised to 
return ; about the girl, as beautiful as a picture, who 
hoped she would like her papa. He told him all ; not 
without many interruptions, for, at first, it seemed that 
Lawrence could not hear it. The thought that some- 
one had seen Adele, had held her hand, heard her 
voice, and now came to him to tell it, was enough to 
overpower him. It was long after the twilight shadows 
had gathered when they arose from their seat, and 
Lawrence turned to his brother with shaking voice and 
outstretched hands, and said : 

“ Charlie, I — ” but Charlie understood and wanted 
no demonstration of gratitude ; so, taking Lawrence’s 
hands in his own, said brusquely ; 


190 


HAYNE HOME. 


‘‘ That’ll do, Loll. I know what you would say. 
Go by yourself now and think. ” 

“But one question more. You did not tell me what 
convinced my poor wife of my innocence. Tell me 
that, Charlie.” 

“I had not intended. Loll, to mix my personal affairs 
with your gladness, but since you ask I will answer. 
The child that calls calls you papa is my child, and the 
woman who died breathing a prayer for Chad’s forgive- 
ness, was my wife — my own proud little Clara.” He 
brushed his eyes hastily, ashamed of the tears that glis- 
tened there, and, seeing that Lawrence was about to 
speak, said : ' 

‘ ‘ There, Loll, you have had enough surprise for one 
night; go and nurse it,” and he walked away in the 
gloaming, leaving the mystified Lawrence gazing in- 
credulously after his retreating figure. Before it had 
vanished in the murky shadows, Lawrence ran breath- 
lessly after his brother, calling : 

“ Charlie, for Heaven’s sake come back and tell me 
of your own past. I am but the most selfish creature 
to accept my happiness, while you are sad. Come 
back and talk to me. ” 

The smile that spread over Charlie’s face was puz- 
zling. 

“ Why, boy,” he replied, “ I am further away from 
sadness to-night than I have been for years. I have 
nursed the idea long that I had nothing to live for; now, 
1 think, if Clara were with me, I would not exchange 
my lot for a king’s. ” 

“ But come and tell me, Charlie. I shall be happier 
knowing your story, too.” 

Then they returned to the seat they had deserted. 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


191 

and Charles told his life-story to Lawrence, which 
brought back the day of Clara's death, and recalled the 
unhappy past so forcibly that he wondered how the 
days and years since that unhappy time had dragged 
themselves away without consuming them bodily. 

It was late in the night when the twin brothers re- 
traced their steps to the house, and found Florence 
awaiting their return. . She had gone to her room but 
could not erase the desire to see her father again and 
whisper her good-night to him. 

Lawrence clasped her in his arms and told her how 
great was his joy at finding her father. They expressed 
their gratitude to Heaven for the intercession of 
Providence in throwing the dying mother among her 
husband's kindred ; and, with manifold expressions of 
thankfulness, they separated for the night The re 'was 
a look of intense sorrow in Lawrence's face when Flor- 
ence said, half sadly : 

What shall I call you .? I can't have two papas. " 

“You will have to adopt me for your uncle, since 
you are blessed with a genuine father," and, clapping his 
hand on Charles' shoulder, continued : “ Charlie, old 

boy, I can’t believe yet" He left them, and, going to 
his room, threw himself down upon a chair near the 
window and cried aloud in his great joy : 

“Coming back to me, my angel wife, coming back 
to heal the wound in my heart, to make me glad with 
your love, to sweeten my bread with your presence, to 
brighten my home, to share my life, to be everything 
that man can want .? O Adele, my love, my love ! " 

His voice died away in a mu|-mur of joy, and the 
stars came out, and looked fondly down ; the moon 
arose and bathed his face in a sheen of moonlight sym- 


192 


HA YNE HOME. 


pathy ; the frogs croaked their gladness ; the crickets 
sang songs of happiness ; the dew fell softly upon his face 
and hair, like cool, sweet hands laid tenderly on them ; 
the soft June wind roamed lazily through the trees, and 
stirred the leaves into sweetest music ; all nature came 
forth to wish him well, and amid it all he lay and 
poured out his heart in thankfulness and praise. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Cora’s disappointment. 

Yet, I think, I should be less severe. 

Although so unexperienced in such things, I fear 
I have learned that the heart cannot always repress. 

Or account for the feelings which sway it. 

— Owen Meredith. 

On a sultry July night a carriage dashed before the en- 
trance of a large railway depot in L , and Charles and 

Lawrence Hayne alighted and passed under the massive 
arch. The latter looked eager and expectant, despite 
his haggard and wan appearance. Excitement and 
pleasurable anticipation lent a flush to his cheeks, and 
his eyes sparkled as they had not done for years. 

He passed restlessly to and fro over the cold tile 
floor, casting occasional glances at the clock, which 
seemed to move so slowly that he could not believe its 
tell-tale fingers until he had compared their progress with 
the elegant chronometer he drew from his pocket. 

“ Dear, dear,” he exclaimed, “ how time does drag ; 
it seems that I have been pacing this floor for two 
hours, whereas that clock declares it is but fifteen 
minutes ! ” 


CO/^A^S DISAPPOINTMENT. 


193 

“ Train is due now ; hope it won^t be late/* answered 
Charlie. 

Shortly after this the crier came into the waiting- 
room bearing a light brown envelope in his hand. He 
stopped only a few feet away from the brothers, and in 
his cold, metallic voice cried out : 

“ Telegraph message for Dr. Lawrence Hayne." 

Before the name had died away in echoes, Lawrence 
had possessed himself of the message, and was tearing 
the end off the envelope. 

It was dated New York City, and ran : 

Adele too ill to travel. Meet Isabel to-night,” 
signed Frederic Moore. 

Turning to Charlie, Lawrence exclaimed : 

“ Have I not suffered enough .? ” 

“ Seems not, Loll ; but Isabel is coming.” 

Yes ; but I almost wish the child were not coming. 
I shall not know what to do with her, or what to say to 
her.” 

Charlie could not repress a smile at this laconic an- 
swer, and remembering from experience how naturally 
one adapts himself to a position like this, replied : 

You will remark her beauty if nothing else. But 
here comes her train. ” 

Two pairs of very expectant eyes peered through the 
gaslight into the faces of the passengers as they filed 
down the steps to the ground. Lawrence espied a 
young man alighting from the railway carriage whom 
he recognized as Walter Reynolds. 

Bowing cordially, but hastily, Lawrence said : 

“ Glad to see you back, Walter,” and pushed his way 
through the crowd. 

Walter Reynolds stopped to assist a young lady to 

13 


HA YNE HOME. 


194 

alight, and the moment that Charles Hayne espied her 
he rushed forward, exclaiming : 

‘‘ Isabel ! Loll, here is Isabel/' 

Such an astonished party was never seen before. 
Walter, not having the remotest idea who Isabel was, 
stood transfixed at seeing Lawrence place his arms 
about her and rain tears upon her hair, while she buried 
her face in his bosom and sobbed aloud. Charles Hayne 
regarded Walter dubiously, until the latter came forward 
and said : 

“ I presume you are Mr. Charles Hayne ? I am a 
friend of Dayne Warwich, and a frequent visitor at Wicks- 
burr. My name is Reynolds. " 

“ Ah, I am glad to meet you ; but how do you happen 
to know this young lady ? inquired Charlie. 

“ I do not even know the lady’s name. I was seated 
in the car this afternoon and this lady entered with a 
colored servant ; there was not a section to be had at 
any price, so I offered her half of mine, which she ac- 
cepted, and the servant went into the second-class car- 
riage. ” 

Lawrence turned to Walter Reynolds, and said 
kindly : 

“ Will anyone meet you to-night, Mr. Reynolds.?” 

“ No ; they are not expecting me, Mr. Hayne.” 

“ Then my brother will drive you home, and I shall 
take the others home in my carriage.” 

Pray put yourself to no inconvenience. I would 
much prefer to take a cab,” Walter replied. 

“ No trouble at all, my boy, we have two carriages 
here ; the fact is we were expecting a large party to- 
night. Charlie,” he said, addressing his brother, ^‘you 
may explain the circumstances to Mr. Reynolds as you 


CORALS DISAPPOINTMENT. 


195 

go along/’ and, without once loosening his gentle grasp 
on Isabel’s arm, he led her to the carriage. 

The faithful old Nettie, who had followed them in all 
their wanderings abroad, in spite of her promise to Julia 
that she would come back and “ lib hyar fer ebber an’ 
ebber,” walked patiently behind, showing all her big 
white teeth in her gladsome grin. 

When they reached the carriage, Nettie mounted the 
box with the driver. Lawrence closed the carriage 
door, and was alone with his child, whom he had never 
before seen. 

He sat beside her with her hand in his, and listened 
while she told him of her mother’s sudden illness when 
they reached New York, and how they had insisted upon 
sending her ahead to break the disappointment, adding : 

I rather objected to coming on, papa, lest my com- 
ing without mamma should make me less welcome.” 

“My dear child, under no circumstances could I re- 
ceive you more joyfully. They were right ; you have 
broken the disappointment. I cannot tell you how 
proud I shall be to call you my daughter,” he said, 
with gratitude in his voice. 

“I hope you will learn to love me, papa.” 

Learn to love her ! He could scarely refrain from 
hugging her to his heart even now, because she was 
Adele’s child. 

“No danger but that I shall love you too much. 
Everything I love slips away from me. I loved your 
mother, and see what became of it ! I loved little Flor- 
ence, and my brother comes and claims her ; now who 
will carry my beautiful daughter away ? ” he asked 
gently. 


HA YNE HOME. 


196 

“ No one, papa, no one. I shall stay with you and 
mamma. ’’ 

**Tell me, Isabel, why you did not advise me when 
you would sail for home .? I wanted to meet you when 
you landed.” 

“ Mamma would not consent to it; saying that the 
time would seem so long to you in anticipation.” 

“Dear little Adele ! This is our home, Isabel. I 
would not allow any one to come and spoil this first 
evening. I wanted it all to myself, and now I fear 
you will be lonely. ” 

“Oh, no, papa! I am rather glad to be alone with 
you. ” 

They stepped from the carriage and ascended the 
broad, white stone steps that led to the entrance, and 
Isabel was conducted through a spacious and brilliantly 
illumined hall to a reception-room, where a venerable 
matron arose and was presented to her. She was . 
Florence's companion and chaperon, Mrs. Wall. When 
Isabel had refreshed her toilette, dinner was served. 
Charles Hayne had returned ere that, and while they 
dined they discussed the proper mode of disposing of 
their time until Adele should arrive. 

Lawrence could not eat. He sat idly playing with 
his fork and watching the pretty face opposite him. 
He at length declared his intention of going on to meet 
Adele and her father. He knew he could neither sleep 
nor eat until he had seen her, and he would leave to- 
morrow for the spot that held the dearest object in the 
world to him. But what should he do with Isabel 
meanwhile .? 

“If you do not object, papa, I think I should like 
to go to your mother’s while you are gone. I saw 


CORALS DISAPPOINTMENT. 


197 

cousin Florence when she was in Italy — at least I have 
built my hopes on it having been Florence, and I am 
all curiosity to see her and make the acquaintance of 
your family/' 

^'Then you shall go there, my dear, since you would 
be pleased. I am sure you will have a pleasant time." 

“When do you leave for New York, papa? " 

“To-morrow morning. I shall leave you in your 
uncle's care. He will take excellent care of you, too, 
and you and Florence wdll get on famously together." 

So it was arranged that while Lawrence should ab- 
sent himself with Adele, Isabel should make the ac- 
quaintance of her new-found relatives. The next morn- 
ing, at nine o'clock, Lawrence bade his sweet daughter 
good-bye, and hastened away to catch the train, and 
an hour later Isabel was entering the drawing-room, 
with a perceptible tremor on her lips, that was caused 
/ by the name of Walter Reynolds upon the card she held 
in her hand. The remembrance of his kindly proffered 
attention and gallant service of yesterday, which had 
so brightened an otherwise tedious journey, brought 
the blood to her cheeks in little tingling waves. She 
entered the room shyly, and rested her sweet blue eyes 
upon his face a moment. He arose hastily, and crossed 
the room to meet her. 

“Miss Hayne, my early visit is prompted by a desire 
to offer my congratulations and good wishes. I re- 
joice so sincerely in learning that my travelling ac- 
quaintance proves to belong to my dearest friends." 

She thanked him so prettily, and seemed so shy in 
her truthful simplicity, that Walter forgot all else but 
this beautiful girl. They were overcoming their strange- 
ness, and were talking in quite an animated manner. 


HA YNE HOME. 


198 

when Charles Hayne entered the room, followed by 
Dayne Warwich. 

When Dayne had been presented to Isabel, and he 
had warmly welcomed and assured her of his cousinly 
reg-ard, he turned to Walter and expressed his pleasure 
at finding him at home. Walter informed him that he 
had arrived the previous evening to find his aunt’s house, 
where he had resided for years, filled with guests, and, 
while they were all charming people, he saw but a faint 
outlook for a gay vacation. 

Dayne exclaimed with animation : “I will tell you 
what we will do, Walter. I arrived in the city this 
morning and found that my parents are visiting in Mo- 
bile. I cannot spend such a solitary vacation, and 
shall not care to curtail their visit, so I propose we go 
down to Hayne Home and partake of Aunt Prue’s good 
things, and enjoy a few days’ hunting.” 

“That will be capital, boys,” exclaimed Mr. Hayne. 

‘ ‘I see no prospect of a dull visit there, hunting and fish- 
ing all day, and the young ladies to entertain you in the 
evening.” 

“Oh, indeed, Mr. Hayne, we did not forego the 
pleasure of the ladies’ society until evening during our 
previous visits. We kept them with us, and Miss 
Florence learned to handle a rifle splendidly, under 
Dayne’s tutelage,” Walter added, mischievously, look- 
ing at Dayne’s flushed face. 

“Are there two young ladies’ at Hayne Home.?” 
Isabel asked. 

“Yes, Miss Cora Russell is a particular friend of 
Florence’s. The Russells occupy father’s home, and 
are charming people, ” Dayne replied, and Isabel 
turned to Charles Hayne and exclaimed : 


CORALS DISAFPOINTAIENT. 


199 


“Then, uncle Charlie, I am sure I saw cousin Flor- 
ence in Italy, for the girls addressed each other as Code 
and Floss, and I am sure they called their chaperon 
Mrs. Russell.” 

This little speech elicited an explanation for the benefit 
of Dayne and Walter, and then followed mention of a 
few notable characteristics of the absent girls, in which 
the young men delightedly acquiesced, and exclaimed : 
“That was certainly Miss Florence,” and “No one but 
Miss Cora would have thought of that,” until they were 
all quite assured that the visitor to the Guanigi Tower, 
at Lucca, was none other than the rosy-cheeked, curly- 
haired Florence. 

Isabel had not expected to go to the country until 
the following day, but their conversation had infused 
so much -enthusiasm into her mind that she suddenly 
exclaimed : “Uncle Charlie, have you anything to de- 
tain you in town .? ” with considerable wistfulness. 

“ Nothing at all,” he replied, eagerly. 

“Then why can we not go to the country to-night } ” 

“Nothing would please me better,” he said; then 
turned to the boys and asked : “Why can’t we all go 
down this afternoon together?” 

“Capital idea ! Cousin Isabel, can you be ready by 
one o’clock ? ” 

“Oh, dear, yes. Do we leave at that time?” she 
asked. 

Yes ; and I think we boys will go home now and 
get our boxes ready. We will have scarcely time to 
call here on our way down. Uncle Charlie will bring 
you to the depot. I am so glad you are going down 
immediately. We will be quite a merry party, I am 
sure,” Dayne said gayly. 


200 


HA YNE HOME, 


It was in Walter’s heart to express his gladness, too ; 
but from a feeling of conscious admiration, he refrained 
from expressing an opinion at all, but departed in a most 
gallant manner, for which Dayne unmercifully twitted 
him after they had reached the street, saying laugh- 
ingly : 

“My dear Reynolds, you astonish me ! Have your 
theological instructors done nothing but drill you in 
deportment? You eclipse me, young man.” 

“Nothing like making a good impression. Your 
cousin is the most charming girl I know,” Walter 
answered, gayly. 

Dayne made no reply, which led Walter to ask : 

“ Don’t you think so ? ” 

“There are exceptions. Though Cousin Isabel is 
charming. ” 

“ Dayne,” Walter ventured, “ what is the matter with 
Florence and yourself? Nothing amiss, I hope?” 

“Nothing amiss? No.” But Dayne’s voice was 
softer than it was wont to be, and he stared at the side- 
walk in such a determined fashion that Walter pressed 
him still further. 

“You are hopelessly in love with her, Warwich ; why 
don’t you come to an understanding ? ” 

“I hope to this time. The fact is, Reynolds, since I 
have been away at school, and Florence has had dif- 
ferent associations, she is not the same girl at all. She 
is variable in her moods ; sometimes she is all smiles 
and kindness ; again she is so spirited and defiant that 
I cannot understand her at all. ” And his words were 
accompanied by a long, deep sigh. 

Walter did not understand matters of the heart at all, 
and imagined that were he anxious to open his heart to 


CORA'S DISAPPOINTMENT. 


201 


a sweet creature, it would be the easiest thing in the 
world to do. They walked on in silence, not refer- 
ring to the subject again. They were at the depot in 
ample time to catch the train leaving at i o'clock. 
When they arrived at the station two miles from Hayne 
Home, they found, in accordance with their telegram, 
requesting someone to meet Isabel, the carriage from 
Wicksburr, and the road cart in waiting for them. 
Florence had come to meet them, and no sooner had 
Isabel stepped from the railway carriage than Florence 
pressed eagerly forward to welcome her. Their greeting 
was so modest and unaffected — each one remembering 
the other — that it was beautiful to see them. 

“You have changed so little since last summer, 
Cousin Isabel; I remember your face so well,” Flor- 
ence remarked. 

“And your face has been like a picture to me ever 
since I saw it. I thought you must be a Spanish 
girl.” 

Florence turned to Walter and greeted him with more 
than usual cordiality, but her manner was constrained, 
and a trifle frigid, when she said : 

“This is such a pleasant surprise. Cousin Dayne. 
We did not know you were expected home so soon.” 

He accepted chivalrously the little hand she offered, 
and replied : 

“I hope none the less welcome, Cousin Florence.” 

But she turned to welcome her father, so that Dayne 
did not have an opportunity to note the lovely flush 
that mantled her cheek, the drooping lids that hid the 
bright, brown eyes. He felt piqued at her evident indif- 
ference toward him. He had loved her all his life, and 
could not realize that she, as a young lady, could not, 


202 


NA YNE HOME, 


with propriety, make the overtures that she could years 
before when she was a little child. Then she met him 
clamorously welcoming him, with no hesitation at all, 
but natural maidenly modesty forbade that now, and 
while she essayed to conceal her delight at meeting 
him again, he turned away in chagrin and began 
conversing with Isabel. 

Charles Hayne was the only member of the little group 
who seemed in his natural frame of mind ; yet he was 
far from happy, for he had learned, with not a little 
trepidation, that Philip and his wife had gone to Mobile 
the previous day, knowing perfectly well that Lawrence 
anticipated his wife’s arrival at this time. Charles had 
hoped to witness the meeting between these two, as all 
his hopes of learning the mystery of Adele’s sudden 
flight lay in Philip’s manner when in the presence 
of Adele. But putting to flight all ideas of a dreary 
nature, he proposed starting at once for the homestead. 
He tools Dayne in the cart with him, and Walter Rey- 
nolds accompanied the young ladies in the carriage. 
The drive was accomplished almost in silence ; only 
occasionally Florence ventured to make a passing 
observation to Isabel, who felt strange and shy among 
her new friends and strange surroundings. 

The meeting between Mrs. Hayne and Lawrence’s 
daughter was most touching. The old lady was com- 
pletely overcome with emotion, and as for Isabel, all 
she asked for was to see her father’s lovely mother 
alone for an hour, that she might pour out all her pent- 
up thoughts and fancies to this sweet-faced grandmother, 
whose white hand so softly stroked her fair hair, and 
whose voice seemed to fill the void in her heart her 
mother s absence made. While Isabel and Mrs. Hayne 


CORALS DISAPPOINTMENT. 


203 

were closeted together, Dayne and Walter walked over 
to see Aunt Prue, and Florence and her father walked 
over to apprise Cora Russell of their lovely acquisition, 
and invite her to spend the following day with them. 

Cora’s pretty face flushed with pleasure at the thought 
of so soon meeting the man who she earnestly believed 
loved her, and to whom she had given her undivided 
affection. She never dreamed of finding a rival in the 
sweet-faced girl whom she had a faint remembrance of 
having seen in Italy. Her foremost thought was for 
Walter, and how she should dress to appear to the best 
advantage. Walter liked pale blue, so she would wear 
a pale blue muslin dress and a white lace hat. She 
scarcely heard what Florence was talking with such 
volubility about, so engrossed was she with her own 
expectations. In after days, when disappointment had 
made her morose and gloomy, she looked back to that 
hour, and wished with all her heart that she might feel 
one iota of the happiness she felt then when she sat 
listening to Florence’s happy sallies, yet hearing noth- 
ing for the glad music that filled her own heart. 

The guests took their leave, urging her to call early, 
as, in case the day proved to be a fine one, they would 
take an excursion of some sort. There were many re- 
sources of pleasure at Hayne Home and its surround- 
ing neighborhood, and the young people promised them- 
selves fetes and pleasurable excursions without num- 
ber. 

The following morning was bright and fair ; but not 
fairer than the beautiful girl who entered the gate and 
tripped over the gravel walk that led up to the Warwich 
house. 

Florence came bounding down the steps in simple 


204 


HA YNE HOME. 


white muslin, crying, gayly : ‘ ‘ Oh, Code, I am so glad 
you have come so early ; we have about decided on a 
visit to the Haunted Hall, but I am afraid that pretty 
gown will not survive such an excursion. Why did you 
not wear a plainer one ? ” 

This one is plain enough,’’ Cora answered, brightly. 

“ Yes ; but it is too delicate for a visit among those 
old dusty walls. I can scarcely wait. I always did 
want to go down there,” Florence observed. 

“How is your cousin this morning? You chatter 
away so fast I have not had a chance to inquire.” 

“Quite well, and, oh, Cora, she is perfect in her man- 
ners — so refined. I am sure my impetuosity completely 
distracts her sometimes,” she continued, with a little 
sigh. “I wish I were like her.” 

“ Oh, Floss, she is doubtless charming ; but you are, 
too, in your way. Pray do not wish to be like other 
people. ” 

Cora was so perfectly well aware of the advantages 
of personal attraction she possessed over Florence, that 
she never failed to see and give due credit to all that 
her little friend merited. In this she was generous, but 
as yet only the pretty side of her nature had been 
exposed, and she was apparently the most fortunate 
of girls ! 

When, a few minutes later, she appeared at the door 
of the parlor, and saw Isabel seated at the piano with 
Walter bending over her, drinking in her beauty in utter 
oblivion of all else, Cora would have given worlds to 
have been anyone other than Cora Russell. 


REUNITED. 


205 


CHAPTER XIX. 

REUNITED. 

While the world was yet ours, 

While its sun was upon us, its incense streamed to us, 

And its myriad voices of joy seemed to woo us, 

We strayed from each other, too far, it may be, 

Nor, wantonly wandering, then did I see 

How deep was my need of thee, dearest, how great 

Was thy claim on my heart, and thy share in my fate ! 

— Owen Meredith, 

Lawrence had once expressed a wish that he were 
haunted by Adele’s caresses ! If he had wished that, 
what then must have been his anticipations as he drove 
from the depot to the hotel } With this intense eager- 
ness and anxiety beating in his heart, surging into his 
brain until it thrilled every pulse, every nerve and fibre 
of his being, he stopped before the entrance of the great 
hotel. 

For the first time in his life he regretted the change 
in his personal appearance. He was not a vain man, 
but heretofore when his truthful mirrors had told him 
that his hair was no longer brown, and that his face 
was lined, he had turned away with a sigh, perhaps, 
and mentally concluded it did not matter, for Adele 
would never know ; but now, in this great tumult, his 
heart cried out against this devastation of time, and, 
with all his passion abused and tortured and rising 
clamorously in his bosom, he sent his card to her room. 

Almost immediately Frederic Moore appeared, and 


2o6 


IIA YNE HOME. 


the two men, who had played at cross-purposes all 
these years, met and shook hands without a word, 
without a smile, or a sign of greeting save that warm 
clasp of hands that sealed their good-will. Lawrence 
was the first to break the embarrassing silence by 
saying, contritely : 

“Mr. Moore, I hope I fully appreciate your magna- 
nimity in thus giving me back what I have lost.” 

“There are many things, Lawrence, which you and 
I will have to discuss before we will fully understand 
and appreciate each other ; but if you bear me no more 
resentment than I do you, we shall soon be friends.” 

“Your nobility in knocking down barriers thus, 
makes me feel myself a perfect coward. ” 

“We will have ample time, I trust, to understand 
each other’s motives. Just now I see you are consumed 
with a desire to see Della ; I came hither to permit 
you to see her alone. ” 

“ How can I thank you } ” Lawrence replied. 

Mr. Moore led the way to their apartments, and, 
signifying with the slightest gesture that Lawrence 
might enter, closed the door and went away. 

The boudoir Lawrence found himself in was so large, 
and the magnificent appointments were so gracefully 
arranged, that he found himself quite bewildered as to 
where he should turn to find her whom he sought. 

A beautiful white hand pushed aside a portiere and 
then emerged the most exquisite picture that Lawrence 
had ever dreamed of beholding. 

He uttered not a word ; he could think of nothing to 
say in this hour of meeting that he had looked forward 
to all these weeks. He had expected to welcome her, 
but now she was here to welcome him. 


REUNITED. 


207 

At sight of the face, still handsome despite its lines, 
Adele lost all her self-command. She had schooled 
herself for this meeting, but now she was as weak as a 
little child. 

With a low cry she threw herself upon his breast, and 
the one burden of her cry was ^‘Forgive — forgive — 
forgive ! ” 

“O Adele, my wife, my wife. Has the time come 
at last when I hold you again in my arms ? I have 
thought that heaven had no mercy, and now I find 
more mercy than I deserve,” he said, raining kisses upon 
the lovely face upturned to his. 

“Than you deserve, Lawrence.? Ah, my love, you 
deserve all the mercy — I the punishment. I cannot 
imagine how I doubted you, but you must know how 
strong the inducements were,” she replied. 

They sat down upon a sofa, and, clasping her arms 
around his neck, she sobbed out lament and self-censure, 
and pledged endless fidelity to him. 

“ Lawrence, ” she said, “ I thought when I heard of 
your supposed faithlessness, that I had received my 
death blow ; I did not believe that I could ever survive 
so great a grief. I thought it would be speedy and 
certain death, and I should have been so grateful for it. 
Yet you cannot appreciate the change in father, Law- 
rence, until you understand it ; he has been so good to 
me, so patient and forbearing ; indeed, I could not have 
borne my grief alone.” She never moved her eyes 
from his face, and he, encircling her with his arm, 
listened to her voice enraptured. Fie yielded himself 
up to the sweet charm of the voice he had so longed to 
hear, and it seemed to him the finest strain of sweet 
music. Her eyes, with their soft lustre, charmed him. 


2o8 


HA YNE HOME. 


and it was only when the glad tones ceased that he 
recovered from the spell she threw around him. 

“Tell me, love, where did you go after you left 
me?” 

“Do you not know that we remained in L until 

after Isabel came ? Ah, me ! it is so many years, so long 
ago, and yet had it happened last week it could not be 
more plainly engraven upon my memory — the pain 
and grief I experienced when I beheld my child, and 
thought that she would never know her father. Then 
I prayed for death to release me from these cruel bonds. 
Oh, my love, my love, you cannot guess what I have 
suffered ; but, Lawrie, what pains, nay stings me most 
of all, is the thought that while you were true and trying 
to shield me from anxiety, I slipped away and caused 
you all this pain ; but, darling, I will atone for it — my 
whole life shall atone for it. ” 

“ This one hour of joy atones for it all, my wife. I 
have suffered and suffered, but in my happiness now I 
could forget my sorrow, and this reunion repays me, 
love. I shall try to make peace with your father. I 
want his good will, as he has mine, and we will try to 
make the future atone for the past. There is one thing, 

my love, that Charlie failed to find out. That ” 

But Adele interrupted him, saying : 

“ Lawrence, do you know that Charlie is one of the 
greatest, grandest characters that ever lived ? ” 

“Charlie is a noble boy,” he answered. 

“Noble? Ah, indeed he is ! Lawrence, he had car- 
ried a grief about in his breast for years — a grief, you 
know, just like ours. The moment he found he could 
restore our happiness he ceased to nurse his own trouble, 
but trampled upon it and grieved for us. I hope the 


■REUNITED. 


209 


daughter he found in his charitable journey will prove 
so great a treasure that he will feel repaid for all his sad- 
ness.” 

“ Della, I did not think it possible for him to exhibit 
such devotion to any living creature. He adores Flor- 
ence, and, in return, she dearly loves him. They are 
inseparable. ” 

‘ ‘ Is she beautiful ? ” 

“She is very beautiful.” 

“As lovely as Isabel.?” 

He smiled down upon her for her momentary jealousy, 
and replied : ‘ ‘ No, Florence is not so lovely as our 
child. Isabel is fair as a white lily. Florence is like a 
crimson rosebud, so full of warm beauty, dusky and 
deep, that you always expect her to burst forth into 
something glorious. But she is not as lovely as our 
Isabel.” 

“You will be very fond of our child, Lawrence.? ” 

“I have told her that my fear is I shall love her too 
well. Someone will carry her off when I prize her 
most. ” 

“She has yearned for you ever since she learned you 
still lived. I shall not soon forget the rapture in her 
face when I told her we would go back to you. She 
threw up her hands with a glad cry, and exclaimed : 

‘ Then I shall know my father ! ’ She has almost existed 
on the anticipation, and never before have we induced 
her to go anywhere without me. The night you met 

her at L was the first time we have ever been 

separated.” 

“ She looks melancholy, my love. Is it habitual, or 
has she met with reverses .? ” he asked anxiously. 

“She came into the world, dear, under such melan- 

14 


210 


HA YNE HOME. 


choly circumstances, and her companions have been so 
grave and sad that one could really expect nothing but 
gloom from her. Perhaps, with gayer companionship 
and younger hearts about her, she may develop a new 
phase of character, though to me she is perfect as she 
is. '' 

“You will be the most fitting companion for her after 
you have ceased to look so sad. Dear me ! what shall 
I do to bring some of your color back.? You are so 
pale.^^ 

She laughed at the quaint criticism. It seemed so 
sweet to once more hear him express concern for her 
welfare. Long she had cared for her father, who was 
not in very good health, in addition to her unusually 
close care of her daughter. In return they had lavished 
all their affection upon her, but had not learned to prof- 
fer that sweetest of all attention — considerateness. 

How sweet it seemed to sit by his side, her hand in 
his, and hear him tell of all the sad days and sleepless 
nights they were leaving behind. Their forlorn mar- 
riage morn held not one hour so fraught with joy and 
unspeakable bliss as this. 

They knew now that they had tasted the bitter to ap- 
preciate the sweet. They had discussed many things, 
when Lawrence said : 

“But, darling, you did not answer the question I 
wished to ask, How did your father become possessed 
of those papers and Florence’s picture .? ” 

“Julia gave them to him,’’ she replied. 

“Julia.? Why, my love, how did Julia get hold of 
them.?” 

“ I do not know. She said they were in your pockets. 
I shall endeavor to find out. She always trusted me.” 


REUNITED. 


2II 


**She will not even know you now. She always was 
a little weak-minded, I thought, and she is a poor sim- 
pering imbecile now,” he said, half-sadly. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Lawrence, what could have caused it } ” 

I do not know ; at least, I never have been able to 
understand it ; but if she had anything to do with these 
papers, it may be that that has made her temporarily 
weak. It might have preyed upon her mind to such a 
degree as to unbalance it. You know, she has lived 
such an isolated life that there was really nothing to 
break the force of a weight of conscience. The child 
must have stolen them. But when, and how ? ” 

“ I cannot remember when she could have been away 
from me long enough to do such a thing.” 

“But my coat and vest containing all these things 
were in a wardrobe at mother’s. How could Julia gain 
access to them ? And I know, and mother remembers, 
that I had the papers when I left the house, just before 
the accident.” 

‘ ‘ Poor Lawrence. The one who should have nursed 
and cared for you then stole away, and left you suffer- 
ing physical as well as mental pain, ” softly murmured 
Adele, who could think of nothing but the great wrong 
she had done him. 

Stroking her hair, in reply he said: “Well, it must 
be that Julia found those papers on the road. We shall 
never know, though, for she cannot talk coherently ten., 
minutes to save her life.'’ 

“At any rate, we are not going to worry about it 
now, for we know who Florence is, and we have suf- 
fered so much that it would be foolish to drag up those 
dead ashes and scatter them about us. We shall live 
for a purpose now. We have a daughter’s welfare to 


212 


HA YNE HOME. 


secure, and there are duties waiting all about us for us 
to discharge. O, husband, we shall be so happy now.’' 

Yes, dear hearts, they will be happy ; but there is 
pain and trouble in store for them yet ! 

They sat together in blissful innocence of the heart- 
ache their reunion was . creating elsewhere. As the 
shadows of twilight deepened about them, and Frederic 
Moore intimated neither by presence nor sound that he 
was in the same building, Adele began to feel a sense 
of unrest. 

Gently disengaging herself from her husband’s arms, 
she said : “Lawrence, in our own great joy we must 
not be selfish. Father must not be neglected.” 

“No, indeed,” Lawrence answered. “We must con- 
sider him first. Where do you suppose he is } ” 

‘ ‘ I will look in his chamber, ” Adele said, leaving Law- 
rence to watch after her retreating figure. 

She tapped softly upon the door of his room, but, re- 
ceiving no summons, opened the door and went in. 
The sight that met her eyes was a most painful one, fol- 
lowing her great happiness. At a window at the further 
end of the room, in a large wicker chair, sat her father. 
His elbows rested upon his knees, and his hands sup- 
ported his head. The attitude of sadness, the sombre 
silence, and the dusky light made the picture a self-tor- 
ture. Rushing to him, she flung herself at his feet, and 
gently lifted the gray head from the wrinkled hands, 
until she could look into the tear-stained face he sought 
so hard to hide. 

“Father,” she cried. “You are lonely ; I have, in 
my selfishness, left you too long ; come now with me, 
dear. There are many things we shall like to discuss 
together. ” 


REUNITED. 


213 


“No, daughter, no. You have not been selfish. Go 
back to your husband. I have had you so long that I 
can spare you now to him. Go back, child, this re- 
union has been a heaven to you. Go back to it.” 

“Oh, no, father, dear ; not a heaven. I used to call 
my home a paradise and heaven ; but that was long, 
long ago, and I have learned, father, that there is no 
paradise here : and, perhaps, the reason we have suf- 
fered so much is because we attached so much faith and 
love in our earthly friends. We have been so worldly, 
father, that God has punished us to teach us contrition. 
I see so plainly now, dear, that if we make idols of our 
worldly goods, and create a paradise here, we never 
can hope to gain admittance to the beautiful heaven our 
Bible tells of. I want you to see it as I do ; we must 
not deem our reparation complete until Isabel and her 
father are firm in this sweet faith.” 

“ Isabel is pure as an angel now. What faith could 
make her purer } ” he cried, in defence of his heart’s idol. 

“Yes, she is pure and good, because temptations 
have never beset her ; she says her prayer mechanically 
from force of habit, because we taught her that she must 
not close her eyes in sleep until her lips had lisped the 
prayer. ” 

“And is not that enough .? ” he asked. 

‘ ' No, that is not enough. There are other things to 
be taught, which nothing but pure, untrammeled faith 
can teach. Submission, humility, and self-sacrifice. 
Ah, father, it took me years to learn this submission to 
a Divine will ; but I had no one to help or to encourage 
me, but with you it will be different. You will have 
me to help you, and I shall never cease, father, until 


214 


HAYNE HOME. 


you think as I think, and believe as I do. You will 
never be perfectly happy until you do. 

He stroked her hair and said, kindly : 

“You have been away from Lawrence, so long, my 
dear, I wish you would return ; he will certainly think 
it unkind in you and selfish in me.’’ 

“ I will go back to him when you are ready to go.” 

He sighed quaintly, but she knew he was pleased. 
He straightened his tall figure and allowed her to lead 
him from the chamber. 

When they had reached the room where Lawrence 
was restlessly pacing to and fro, Adele took her father’s 
hand and said : “Lawrence, I have come home, as you 
understand, conditionally. Father desired to return ; 
I acquiesced on the condition that he would forgive our 
past offenses, and as you have told me you bear him no 
resentment, I agree to return to you. When my father 
and my husband can declare themselves at peace and 
without malice, then I will be a friend to them both. ” 

They clasped hands, and Lawrence said: “I ask 
your pardon, sir, for every pang of sorrow I have caused 
you, and I cannot better show my good will than to 
tell you that I trust, from this on, you will share our 
home and interests, and let our future atone, if it can, 
for the past. ” 

“ I will not be outdone, in generosity, by an out- 
raged husband, and for all the pain my stubborn pride 
and rashness caused you, I ask your pardon ; and I 
thank you, Lawrence, for your generous hospitality, 
which we will discuss after we reach home.” 

This conciliating dialogue was continued at some 
length, and when the conversation had reverted to the 
events of the past few years, Lawrence told him about 


REUNITED. 


215 

Julia’s mental deficiency, and many other things of 
corresponding interest. 

The trio that we leave now, in the splendid apart- 
ments of a New York hotel, is a happy one, and though 
Adele had known happiness when she lived estranged 
from her father, yet she thought to-night that no woman 
was ever so happy as she. Sitting at her father s side, 
with her loved husband sitting at her feet, she deemed 
her life wholly blessed. 

Ah, it is so sad to know that shadows must follow 
those brilliant gleams of sunshine ! 


2I6 


HA YNE HOME. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE HAUNTED HALL. 

Steadily up from their swampy forge the sparks of fireflies rise. 

In the pool where the wading lilies make love through half-shut eyes. 
To the whippoorwill who scolds like a shrew at the fluffy owl ; 

While the night hawk shuffles by like a monk in a velvet cowl. 

And the bat weaves inky weft through the white star beams that peep 
Down thro’ the cypress boughs, where the frogs all sing “ Knee deep ! ” 

— Robert McIntyre. 

We left the young people at Mrs. Warwich’s. Cora 
Russell had stopped on the threshold, abashed into 
silence, by the spectacle that met her view. She was 
a proud-spirited girl, though gentle and passive with her 
friends. Having given her love to Walter, and having, 
in her sweet innocence, failed to note the absence of 
ardor and passion in his attentions to her, it all flashed 
before her mind's eye to-day so suddenly and forcibly, 
too, that it is not strange that she hesitated to enter the 
room that held her love and her rival. 

Walter had known Isabel but a few hours, yet the 
eyes he bent upon the fair face were laden with love. 

Cora’s keen sight caught the fire that flamed into the 
depth of his gaze and kindled his cheek. He had never 
looked at Cora so — never ! and now when she thought 
— poor girl — that she stood upon the verge of happiness, 
she found that she was being rapidly thrust into the 
pitiless chasm of disappointment. 

Florence signified to the enwrapt pair, that they were 


THE HAUNTED HALL, 


217 

not alone by saying, Isabel, let me present my friend, 
Miss Russell — Cora, Miss Hayne/’ 

Isabel advanced graciously, saying, “ Miss Russell’s 
face is not strange to me. I am very glad to meet you. ’ 

“Nor yours to me. Miss Hayne. I am happy to 
welcome you home,” Cora answered, then turning to 
Walter, who had advanced to greet her, she said : “Mr. 
Reynolds is very kind to honor us with his society 
again.” Without a sign to show the struggle it cost her 
to speak calmly, and the lead in her heart grew heavier, 
as she remembered the look he had bestowed upon 
Isabel, and the smile that her slightest movement 
brought to his face, but to his rather flattering reply, she 
answered gayly, and shut up the jealousy in her aching 
heart, and was pleasant and affable, and if her heart 
was sad that day no one else was the wiser ; she in- 
quired after Dayne, and was informed that he had gone 
to engage the boats that were to carry them down the 
creek to the Haunted Hall. 

Before the young ladies were fully equipped for their 
day’s pleasure, they must have a hamper, packed with 
all the sweet delicacies that go to make a dinner in the 
greenwood inviting. How happy Mrs. Warwich’s heart 
was that day as she filled the basket for the daughters 
of her sons ! For years she had invariably sighed at 
thought of Lawrence, or Adele, and now she sighed, 
but it was such a happy sigh, that fluttered from her 
lips like a bird let loose from its gilded cage. When 
the basket was filled and the girls had declared them- 
selves ready, at last, the party set off for the stream. 

So charming a party seldom traverses country lanes. 
The delicate tissue of the girl’s dresses swayed grace- 
fully in the gentle air, while the lace parasols fluttered 


HAYNE HOME. 


218 

and threatened to fly away each minute. What merry 
jests and little brilliancies dropped from their rosy lips 
as they sauntered slowly along. They had many such 
days ; but in after years they liked to remember the 
soothing scent of the freshly-cut grass, and the wild 
roses that clambered over the garden fence that morning. 

There is an epoch in everyone’s life to which we like 
to look back. Every story has its bright page, and 
every life has its sweet memory. Perhaps it is only a 
walk through the meadow or an hour among the flow- 
ers, in the moonlight, but it is worth a ransom to us. 
We would not allow it to slip from us for twice its joy. 
It is a drowsy dream, from which we wake to find the 

world only a commonplace world after all, and we 

well, we are mortals, older, wiser, and sadder, perhaps, 
but still mortals. 

The Haunted Hall was an old-fashioned white stone 
house that stood on the bank of Mill Creek, five miles 
from Hayne Home. It was a two-story house, with 
wide, drooping eaves, and a rickety stairway running 
up on the outside, which opened into a porch that ran 
clear around the house at the second story. The trees 
formed a dense thicket on one side, and on the other 
the ground sloped down to the water’s edge. 

The owner of the house had murdered his wife and 
afterward hung himself there, and since then no one 
could be induced to inhabit the gore-stained domicile. 

Of late the people in that vicinity had been heard to 
declare that sometimes, at night, the windows, bleak 
and drear in daylight, showed streaks of light through 
their faded curtains, but no one had ever been seen to 
come or go, and so the shattered old house had become 
famous as the Haunted Hall. 


THE HAUNTED HALL. 


219 


Our excursion party, in two boats, came gliding down 
the smooth water toward the landing at the Hall, and 
when the boats had touched their keels to the turf, they 
all sprang nimbly out and walked toward the ill-fated 
house. 

“What a pity,” Isabel exclaimed, “that this place is 
not habitable. What a beautiful country place it would 
make ! ” 

“It could be made habitable in a very short time. 
A pound of nails and some soap and water would soon 
restore it to its usefulness,’’ answered Florence. 

‘ ‘ And what about the ghosts .? Could they be nailed 
and scrubbed off too.? ” inquired Dayne, laughingly. 

‘ ‘ I imagine a few doses of arsenic would exterminate 
these ghosts,’' Florence observed, and Dayne shouted 
aloud : 

“Whoever heard,” he cried, “of that remedy for 
spooks P Pray, Cousin Florence, what do you imagine 
these ghosts are .? ” 

“Nothing but rats, or perhaps a poor forlorn cat or 
two,” she said. 

“But rats and cats do not carry a light from one room 
to the other, and people say that there really has been 
seen a light first in one window and then in another, 
until finally a human figure could be distinguished 
between the light and the curtain,” Cora remarked. 

“Pshaw!” interposed Florence. “Did you ever 
make pictures in the clouds and in the fire .? ” 

“Yes, of course, I have,” Cora replied, wonderingly. 

“Then you must understand how these superstitious 
people fancy these things. You have not ventured your 
opinion yet, Mr. Reynolds,” she said gaily, turning to 
Walter. 


220 


HA YNE HOME. 


“I have never given the subject much thought, for I 
am not superstitious, Miss Florence. ’’ 

“There! His views in this direction coincide with 
my own, I know. But what shall we do with this 
basket while we explore this dust-bedizened den We 
cannot leave it where the feline relics will reach it,^’ 
Florence said, brightly. 

“ Shall we hang it here on this large peg.?” Dayne 
asked, as he hoisted the basket to carry it to a large 
wooden peg that protruded from the stone wall under 
the stairway. 

“Oh, no ! ” rejoined Isabel ; “perhaps that is where 
our late lamented host hung himself,’’ with a light 
laugh. 

“Well, if we return and find it empty, Florence and 
Walter will have to acknowledge that our theory is not 
all cat and rat nonsense,” Dayne declared, while he 
hung the basket up and started in pursuit of the others, 
who had by this time ascended the steps and were 
taking a circuit of the narrow balcony. They at length 
came to a door that yielded to their touch, and swung 
back quietly on its hinges and let them in. The room 
they entered was a large parlor, with long, narrow 
windows, whose small, square panes made them seem 
like prison bars ; the room contained a few articles of 
furniture, which, for its antiquity, would have to-day 
brought a fabulous price from some of our relic hunt- 
ing Ton. 

Then there was a large fireplace, surmounted by a 
wooden mantel, so high that one could scarcely see a 
book lying thereon, and the narrowness seized one with 
a fear that everything upon it would at any moment be 
hurled to the stone hearth below. There was in one 


THE HAUNTED HALL. 


221 


corner of the room a small piano. Its keys were 
yellow, and some of them refused to yield to the touch 
of the delicate fingers that ran over them, others went 
down with a jerk and cried out a plaintive wail that 
jarred harshly upon the sensitive nerves of the hearers ; 
all, excepting Cora, who felt in this poor, old, neglected 
piano, a kindred spirit that sympathized with the des- 
olate feeling that pervaded her heart this morning. She 
had, to be Sure, come down in the boat alone with 
Walter, but his anxiety to keep pace with the boat that 
held Isabel hurt her more than anything else. His 
calm indifference and 7 i 07 ichalance that she had so ad- 
mired in him were all gone this morning, and, in their 
place, was a restlessness that almost equalled nervous- 
ness, and the hand that was stretched forth to proffer 
to Cora kindly and courteous attention seemed listless 
and hasty, but when the same hand waited upon Isabel 
it seemed to linger about its offices, as though loth to 
quit them. Cora saw it all, but pride and good sense 
were her friends and did not desert her. 

They strolled from room to room ; there were quaint 
little fauteuils in old-fashioned brocatelles, and there 
were tapestries and brocades, faded and moth-eaten. 
There were shelves of richly-bound volumes, bronzes 
and marble images. The visitors were wild with en- 
thusiasm. 

“Do you presume that no one has ever visited this 
place since the tragedy } ” Walter asked. 

“It does not betray a sign of having been invaded 
before. One would imagine, though, that it would be 
a rendezvous for all the tramps in the surrounding 
country,” Dayne replied. 

“Had they no relatives to come into possession? 


222 


HA YNE HOME 


Who were they, anyhow ? ” Isabel inquired, and Flor- 
ence replied : 

“ Mr. Reede was a banker in town, very wealthy. I 
have seen his magnificent town house, and will show 
it to you some time. They came down here every 
summer and brought their friends, and I have heard 
grandma say they were charming people, and the trag- 
edy was the result of sitting too long over their wine 
and walnuts. The guests, of course, went quietly home 
after the tragedy, but after the bodies were removed 
the servants would not stay here a night. It seems so 
ridiculous, doesn’t it ? ” 

“Well, I think such a catastrophe might produce a 
shock that a sight of the scene might always recall ; 
and in that case one can be excused, without being 
called superstitious. You are, evidently, a brave little 
girl. Cousin Florence,” Isabel said, admiringly. 

“If you are all going to discuss ghosts, rather than 
prowl around the house, I will go and play ; I can’t 
give up that dear old piano,” cried Cora, flitting out of 
the library into the large parlor, merely to get away 
from the pair who were so unconsciously giving her 
pain. When she had seated herself, and was thumbing 
the yellow keys, she heard a jingling sound, as of 
something metallic striking the sounding board. She 
listened a long time, as she touched various keys and 
found that it did not diminish the sound. Stooping, she 
peered under the lid and saw that, lurking in the shaded 
recess of the dark rosewood case, was an object that 
shone like silver. She slipped her hand under, and 
drew forth a small tin box ! At first she was half-fright- 
ened, and would have thrust it back, lest it contained a 
skeleton of the past, when she bethought herself of the 


THE HAUNTED HALL. 


223 


length of time that box would have lain there, had it 
belonged to the family who had lived here. A glance 
at the box was sufficient to assure one that it had been 
recently put there. There were no marks of fingers 
upon it, and instead of being coated with dust, it was 
bright and bore evidence of having received recent 
attention. 

After a lengthy deliberation, she decided to open it 
without saying anything to the rest of the party ; she 
knew they were enjoying a spirited conversation, by 
the way their voices rang out in musical laughter. 

Opening the lid, the first thing that met her eye was 
a handful of silver coin, all of which bore a date of at 
least twenty years back. Pushing this aside, she found 
a little memoranda, or diary, but the writing was in 
cipher and characters, and was as so much Greek to 
her, though she gazed at it spell-bound. She put her 
hand to her cheek, a habit she had when in deep med- 
itation, and said, “Where have I seen this character- 
writing ? I have seen this same kind somewhere,! am 
sure.” She turned the leaves over and over, but there 
was not a name, not a trace of English penmanship to 
tell whose the book was, or had ever been. There was 
nothing else — only the money and the book. She put 
the box with the money back where she found it ; but 
the book she cautiously slipped into her pocket, and as 
she did so, a thought flashed into her mind that made 
her gasp, to stifle the cry of rapture that seemed to her 
necessary to her joy. 

“I know, now. I know where I have seen this 
cipher ! Oh, will this day ever end, I wonder ? ” And 
she thumbed upon the keys without hearing them, she 
looked about the room without seeing anything ; so 


224 


IIAYNE NOME. 


enrapt was she in this dream of discovering a secret 
that had come into her possession in this hapless fashion. 
She was musing over it still, when Florence bounded 
into the room, with her dimples dotting her face in pret- 
tiest glee. 

“Cora, do you know it is nearly noon .? We have 
loitered here two hours. Come, we are going across to 
that little glen and spread our dinner. Bid your heart- 
broken piano a fond farewell and come.’' 

Cora arose and followed her friend without comment, 
until they reached the hall, when Florence’s quizzical 
look provoked the query: “Florence, why are you 
looking at me so strangely, child } ” 

“You look so serious. Code, I am wondering what 
you are thinking of,” was Florence’s answer. 

Cora laughed lightly, and tried to evade the unspoken 
question, but obdurate Florence would not be put off. 

“Tell me, Cora, please, why you are so distant with 
us all } Why don’t you stay with us .? ” 

Cora could not be cross with her little friend ; so 
forcing a smile to her lips, she answered gaily : 

“ That old piano has given me the horrors. Floss, 
I thought as I sat there, that there is nothing in the 
wide world so sympathetic as a piano ; it follows our 
mood, is gay when we are gay, sad when we are sad, 
and, no matter what our humor is, a piano will adapt 
itself.” 

“Well, Cora,” observed Florence, laughingly, “that 
is a fine train of thought for a picnic. ” 

“I told you the piano had given me the horrors,” 
Corn answered, seriously. 

“You did not find any goblins in it did you. Miss 
Cora? ” asked Walter, who had overheard her last re- 


THE HAUNTED HALL. 


225 


mark. He noted the flush, followed by a pallor that 
overspread her face, and felt annoyed at what he sup- 
posed was foolish superstition. He did not dream 
that, instead of a goblin, she had found a book that 
would fight in armor against himself. 

Then they descended the steps together ; Dayne and 
Isabel had crossed the lawn quite in advance of them, 
and were seated on a bank of moss near the water’s 
edge. 

As they descended the tottering steps that ended in a 
path near a clump of evergreen trees, Florence looked 
upon Dayne and Isabel, sitting in their grotesquely 
beautiful bower of foliage, and perhaps her heart gave 
a little jealous thud in spite of her loving, impetuous 
nature ; for she mentally abused herself for her mo- 
mentary pang, adding, “ I ought to be ashamed of my- 
self. I want Dayne and everybody else to love Isabel ; 
she says she has never had a friend.’’ Nevertheless it 
created a new sensation in her heart, and provoked a 
little desire to pique Dayne. 

As they strolled slowly across the lawn, Dayne sang 
out in a rich tenor voice : 

“ Ye ho, ye ho, who’s for the ferry, 

The briar’s in bud, and the sun’s going down ; 

And I’ll row you so straight, and I’ll row ye so steady, 

And it’s only a penny to Twickenham town,” 

Take your passenger over. Cousin Dayne. I think 
I shall like Mr. Reynolds’ steady rowing best,” Flor- 
ence retorted. 

“Oh! So, Cousin Florence.? Come then. Cousin 
Isabel, you will accept my escort, won’t you?” and she 
replied ; 


15 


226 


I/A YNE HOME. 


‘ ‘ Very gladly, Cousin Dayne, ” and gracefully stepped 
into the boat. 

When they had crossed the narrow channel, they 
found themselves among the most beautiful devices 
that nature produces. There were ivies trailing their 
long, slender sprays over and around gnarled oaks ; the 
golden primroses peeped from among their leaves like 
great stars ; the violets and ferns and daisies all peeped 
from their luxuriant cushions of moss, and the sunlight 
gleaming between the trees threw golden glints upon 
their varied shades. 

The three fair young girls threw themselves down 
upon the mossy carpet, and, laying aside their hats, 
allowed the soft wind to make a reckless confusion of 
their sunny hair. How lovely they were ! They made 
a varied picture of loveliness. Isabel, with her burn- 
ished gold hair and pink and white face, sat at the foot 
of the tree ; on the left sat Cora, with her j^ellow curls 
and her waxen face * and on the other side Florence, 
with her hazel eyes and reddish brown curls, reclined 
against an ivy-grown tree that had fallen among its 
brothers. 

Dayne looked upon them in undisguised admiration, 
and, passing around to where Florence sat, he dropped 
at her side, saying : 

“‘Faith, Hope, and Charity.’ May I sit at Faith’s 
right hand ? ” and looked into Florence’s brown eyes. 

'' I Faith I Oh, no, Dayne!” she cried, in affected 
indifference. 

“And why not.?” then lowering his voice, said to 
her: “You are not Hope, for you have ” 

“Then I must be Charity, Dayne,” she answered, 
indifferently. 


THE HAUNTED HALL, 


227 

“No, you are not even charitable to me,” he said, 
laconically. 

“Why, Dayne, I always divide my apples and candy 
with you,” and they all laughed at this hint of their 
childhood friendship, and then Florence averred that 
they must spread their dinner before the sun crept 
around to drive them away, and she tripped away to 
empty the basket of its luscious burden, leaving Dayne 
to sigh and ponder over her indifference. The only 
conclusion that he could possibly arrive at was that she 
was an “enigmatical little minx,” which conclusion 
did not by any means pacify his restless desire to 
reinstate himself in her affections, as he believed that 
absence had completely wooed her thoughts from 
him. 

Isabel was, perhaps, the only contented one among 
the group. Utterly unconscious of the havoc she had 
created in the little quartette, her sole wonder was, why 
they were all so kind to her, who had never before had 
a bosom friend } She did not know, innocent child, 
that she might have had scores of friends had she not 
clung with child-like tenacity to her mother always. 

What a great dinner that was, and how charmingly 
served ! Florence presided, and very pretty she looked 
doing the honors of the dinner, with her plump white 
hands fluttering here and there among the dishes and 
forks. A luncheon in the woods is always appetizing 
enough, but when sweetened with such enchanting 
smiles and pure, guileless jocundity, it is not to be 
wondered at, that one always feels a listless drowsiness 
after partaking so ravenously of the delicious viands. 

The afternoon was spent in gathering ferns, swing- 
ing in grapevine swings, botanizing, and strolling 


228 


HA YNE HOME, 


through the grounds that surrounded the Haunted Hall. 
Four of them were loath to return home, but Cora 
thought the day would never end. That little memo- 
randa seemed to scorch her pocket ; her hand idly stole 
to the pocket that contained the important article, and 
it seemed to her they must all know of its presence, so 
conscious of it was she herself. 

Going home that day, Florence, with a sly stroke of 
original scheming, succeeding in putting Isabel and 
Cora into the boat with Dayne, while she sailed away 
with Walter, who seemed in a most agreeable frame of 
mind, notwithstanding his momentary disappointment 
at not being able to row Isabel back home. 

Walter and Florence kept up an animated conversa- 
tion, occasionally sending behind them a peal of mirth 
that made the three occupants of the other boat laugh 
in sympathy. 

Cora could not be persuaded to accompany the cous- 
ins to Wicksburr ; vainly they endeavored to induct 
her to spend the remainder of the day with them, but 
her mind was too full of ideas concerning that little 
book, to give her peace or rest until she had solved 
the mystery. 

When they separated at the foot of the lane, Walter 
would have accompanied Cora home, but Dayne ar- 
rested any such intention, by saying : 

“Walter, if you will accompany my cousins I will 
walk home with Miss Cora, as I have an errand over 
there.’’ 

His errand was to obtain some books that still re' 
mained in the library at his old home, and their walk 
being accomplished in silence, and the books being in 
his possession, there remained no excuse for him to 


THE HAUNTED HALL. 


229 

prolong his visit, so he returned immediately to Wicks- 
burr. 

He had no sooner -left the house than Cora, forget- 
ting the book in her pent-up grief, threw herself upon a 
lounge in the library and sobbed aloud in her chagrin 
and heartache, and there and thus Mrs. Russell found 
her when she came in to listen to her enthusiastic 
daughter go into raptures over her day’s pleasure. Cora 
had not heard the door open, nor close ; she still 
sobbed piteously. Her mother stood bewildered and 
too dazed to speak, until the passionate weeping brought 
tears of sympathy to her own eyes. 

Stealing softly to the lounge, she knelt beside it, and 
raised the fair girlish head to her arm, and cried, in 
agitated voice : 

“Cora, my darling, what has happened to you? 
Why do you cry, my child ? Tell me ; you distress 
me.” 

“ Oh, mamma, mamma ! ” was all she answered. 

“Cora, I beg you to tell me what ails you. You 
left home this morning the happiest child, and now 
you come back to me in bitter tears. Tell me, darling, 
what has happened. You will trust your mother, 
Cora?” 

“It is so selfish to worry you with my grievances, 
mamma ; but I am so miserable, oh, so miserable ! ” 
Cora sobbed, in broken sentences ; and, brightening 
up a little, threw her arms about her mother’s neck and 
asked, with tears running down her face: “Mamma, 
tell me, impartially, if you have ever noticed Walter’s 
manner toward me — what it signified to you. Do you 
think he ever — ever cared for me, mamma?” Her 
mother raised her brows in silent surprise, and pressed 


230 


HAYNE HOME. 


her pink lips more tightly, perhaps, but hoped to reply 
in an indifferent manner. 

“I cannot conjecture, my darling girl, what has 
happened to-day to disturb you so, and mentioning Mr. 
Reynolds as you do puzzles me more and more. I 
have observed his manner toward you, and always ad- 
mired his dignified reserve, different to the gushing at- 
tentions the young men seem to prefer to shower upon 
their friends now. I never attempted to define his 
feelings toward you, love, because he is a straightfor- 
ward, conscientious young man, and one could readily 
see that, when he desires to make you understand his 
feelings, he will candidly tell them to you. I admire 
him more than any young man I know. I hope you 
have been kind to him, Cora.” 

‘‘Oh, yes, I have been kind ; but he — he ” 

Mrs. Russell began to get a glimmering of her child’s 
meaning. The idea of Walter being indifferent to her 
idolized daughter’s loveliness insulted her. With un- 
usual asperity she exclaimed : 

“Surely, my love, he has not been unkind io you P 
Pray tell me, Cora, what distresses you. I cannot help 
you in my ignorance.” 

“It is so humiliating, mamma, I don’t see how I 
can tell even you. I was foolish enough last summer 
to mistake his kindness for something more than friend- 
ship. Perhaps he would have learned to care for me, 
but he — — ” She could not force herself to say it. 

“He what? Has he neglected you, or been unkind 
to you, Cora ? ” Mrs. Russell asked. 

“Oh, no, mamma, he is still most courteous and 
kind ; but he is so different with Isabel ” 


THE HAUNTED HALL. 


231 

‘‘With Isabel Hayne ? Why, he never saw the girl 
until day before yesterday. ” 

“ I know. But, mamma, he loves her already. I 
saw it the moment I entered the house at Wicksburr. 
He looks differently at her, and speaks differently to 
her. Oh, mamma, I cannot tell you what I have suffered 
to-day. He was always good to me, but he never 
loved me. I see it so plainly now, he never loved me.” 

“ But he will, Cora ; I am sure he will. I hope, 
however, you have not committed yourself. He does 
not understand your feelings ? ” 

“No, no ! I am not so weak as that. I could not 
meet his eyes if he knew. No, I must swallow my 
disappointment. I can never hope for his love. I have 
been so happy. My life has been so sweet that I 
thought his love would be my crowning joy. I have 
never wished for anything that was not immediately 
granted, yet I never wanted anything half so much as 
this, love, and yet it has been denied me. Mamma, 
why am I punished.? I have been good all of my 
life ; I have done no wrong, yet I am punished. Why 
is it so? Oh, mamma, did your heart ever ache 
like this ? Don't cry, mamma ; my selfish misery is 
distressing you. I will soon be calm ; only just now 
I like to tell you my grief, then it will be easier. I 
wonder if I shall ever be gay or light-hearted again ? ” 
Mrs. Russell stooped and kissed the pale cheek, with 
all the idolatry in her heart surging to her lips. It 
crazed her to see her only child, their petted darling, 
subjected to such disappointment. She herself had a 
violent temper. It required all of her strength to keep 
it under control. She longed, just now, to fling her 
compassion on the air, and express all the anger and 


HAYNE HOME, 


232 

sympathetic disappointment in words that would 
scathe the ears of the man who had created this dis- 
aster in her household. She would not dare do it, 
however. Cora was gentle and mild. Her disposition 
was of her father’s type. She was always shocked at 
her mother’s anger, which repelled her, so harsh and 
hardened she seemed at such times. Mrs. Russell was 
cognizant of this fact, and would suffer anything her- 
self rather than see her child suffer in addition to the 
pain that was already wringing her heart. “Yes, 
Cora, you shall be all the happier for this bitterness. 

I am going to send you a cup of tea, and you must 
drink it, then go to your room and be put to bed. You 
do not want to go to bed.? Well, my dear, I insist 
upon it. You are as white as your handkerchief, and 
your eyes are twice as large as usual. Think of a 
sweet future, Cora, not a bleak one. It will all come 
right. He may be infatuated with her now, but he will 
recover. ” 

She kissed the pale lips, and placed a pillow com- 
fortably for the golden head to rest upon, and turned to 
leave the room. She had laid her hand upon the door 
when Cora said, faintly : 

“Mamma, I forgot. I found something to-day. 
When we were storing things in the attic, do you re- 
member we found a little book — a cipher, or character- 
language, alphabet I should say ? ” 

“Yes, of course I remember. It was Mr. Warwich’s. 
I remember we thought it so strange that he should 
have such a thing. “ What about it.? ” 

“ I have found why he had that book. He kept a 
diary in cipher, though why he did such a sly thing as 
that I can’t imagine. ” 


A DISCO VEKV. 


233 


Give me the book, Cora/' And her mother 
grasped the little volume and left the room, grateful to 
the purple twilight that hid the intense eagerness and 
anxiety in her face. And Cora lay back upon the pil- 
low in blissful ignorance of the use to which the little 
diary would be put to help her win her love. 


CHAPTER XXL 

A DISCOVERY. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 

Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died ; 

She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide 
No uttered syllable or woe betide ! 

But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 

Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 

Her throat in vain, and die, heart stifled, in her dell. 

— yohn Keats. 

When Mrs. Russell left the library that night with the 
diary in her hand, her first act was to go to the kitchen 
and order a tray of delicacies sent in to Cora, with a 
cup of tea and a glass of wine. Being a most devoted 
mother, she would, on any other occasion, have 
gratified the wants and necessities of the lovely 
daughter herself, but to-night her mood was such that 
she could not trust herself to listen to the sorrowful 
cries of her child without creating a scene, and making 
her family tenfold more unhappy than they already 
were. So she grasped the little volume more tightly, 
and went directly to the attic. There was a book- 


HA YNE HOME, 


234 

case there with shelves of books and drawers of 
papers. None of the drawers were locked. The case 
had been left there by Philip when he moved into the 
city, and when Mrs. Russell was superintending the 
storing of some surplus furniture, the little cipher, re- 
ferred to by Cora in the previous chapter, had been 
found and put into one of the bookcase drawers. 

Thither Mrs. Russell went, and was well-nigh over- 
joyed at finding it in the identical spot that she had 
placed it a few years previous. Taking it to a stand, 
she touched a match to a candle standing in an old- 
fashioned bronze candlestick. Then she drew up an 
old, high-backed chair, and dusted it thoroughly before 
allowing her pretty chintz gown to come in contact 
with it. She seated herself beside the small stand and 
opened both of the books. There was nothing in the 
little book that had lain in the attic but some accounts 
several years old, and a few little memoranda that had 
evidently been jotted down as reminders of as many 
appointments. In the back of it, however, were a 
couple of lines of single letters, or characters ; above 
them, in corresponding spaces, was the English 
alphabet. 

Mrs. Russell compared a few notes, which convinced 
her she had the right clue to the secrets of the diary. 
She found it tedious enough to spell the words letter by 
letter, and it was after reading many pages of mere 
nothingness, so trifling and commonplace were they, 
that she laid the book down in disgust, and arose to 
leave the attic, when a whirl of the leaves of the jour- 
nal showed her a page of characters almost all of which 
were underscored and punctuated with much accurate- 
ness. She resumed her seat, snuffed the candle, and 


A DISCOVERY. 


235 


placed the cipher in corresponding view with the diary. 
It occupied full twenty minutes to make it out in Eng- 
lish. She had written it upon an old envelope as it 
was deciphered, and the trembling tracery showed only 
too plainly the nervousness of the hand that penciled it. 
When, at last, that one page was copied she laid the 
pencil down, and, dropping her hands idly in her lap, 
sat stupidly staring at the paper in front of her. She 
might have been stone dead for all the sign of active 
life she gave ; but the quick breathing and rapid 
pulse were evidence of agitation and nervous excite- 
ment. 

How long she might have sat thus she could not tell, 
for the dinner bell rang and recalled her from her 
abstractedness to the common occurrences of life, and 
told her that she must put aside curiosity and go down 
to her husband, and appear natural and at her ease, 
even though her mind was tortured with doubt and per- 
plexity, and her hands were trembling with nervous 
dread. She arose from her seat and stood transfixed. 
The bell sounded again, which aroused her from her 
apathy. A fierce, vindictive joy illumined the woman’s 
fair face, and she crushed the envelope in her hand as 
though she would fain clutch at the throat of a secret 
adversary. 

“ I have it ! ” she mentally exclaimed, tightening her 
lips. “ I have it ! This little time-stained book will 
do the work for me. My beautiful, gifted Cora shall 
not be sacrificed for that girl. Cora, my precious child, 
mother will settle your future. No more heartache, no 
more humiliation for us. But, oh ! what I shall heap 
upon them if they are not willing to be led by kindness. 
I will be all that is fair. I will try kindness first, and, 


HA YNE HOME. 


236 

if that is not effectual, I know,’' she exclaimed aloud, 
‘ ‘ what will be effectual. " 

She descended to the dining-room, unconscious of the 
pallor that had blanched her cheeks and lips. She 
found her husband seated at the table waiting for her 
with patient resignation-. 

He raised his eyes to greet her in his habitual kindly 
way, but the greeting was arrested on his lips, he was 
so astonished at her appearance. 

“My dear, you are ill ; you should not have come 
to the dining-room,” he said laying his hand gently on 
her cold one. 

“ I am only worried. Have you seen Cora?” she 
asked. 

“ I observed her lying on the library lounge. I pre- 
sume she is quite tired after her day’s pleasure, and I 
did not disturb her.” His voice was one of those deep 
voices that either ring out fiercely in passion, or sound 
low and musical in softened words. His hair was iron- 
gray as well as his beard ; he was only about forty-five 
years old ; his family relations were pleasant at all 
times, excepting when his wife indulged in one of her 
fits of anger. At such times he suffered enough to un- 
balance all the happiness that lay on the other side of 
the scales. 

His wife was tempted to tell him of Cora’s trouble, 
but she sensibly concluded that when her mind was in 
such a turbulent state as its present one, she was not 
qualified to speak either calmly or sensibly. So to his 
remark about Cora, she replied, briefly: “She is, 
indeed, weary, and almost ill from the excitement of 
the day.” 

“ Well, my dear, I hope you are not making your- 


A DISCOVERY. 


237 


self ill, in sympathy ? Your cheeks look positively 
cold and dravim in their whiteness. Drink some coffee, 
and perhaps a glass of brandy will be good for you.” 

Thank you, dear, I think the coffee will be suf- 
ficient ” 

They ate their dinner in silence, save for an oc- 
casional remark or question, and when her husband 
went out into the grounds for his after-dinner smoke, 
she went softly to Cora’s couch and touched the hot 
forehead with her lips. 

There was, as in nearly all country houses, a guest- 
chamber on the ground floor. To this Mrs. Russell 
had Cora conveyed ; they changed her gown for one 
more comfortable, and then the anxious mother sat be- 
side her to note her condition. Cora moaned uncon- 
sciously, which almost frenzied the loving parent, who 
spoke gently and softly, which had the result of bring- 
ing the beautiful eyes back from their roving stare, 'and 
for a moment she would speak quite rationally. At 
length they could do nothing themselves that had the 
power of restoring her, so they dispatched a servant in 
hot haste for a physician. * 

All night they watched beside the lovely face, and as 
morning approached Cora grew better. No sooner had 
she become conscious of the anxious faces about her 
than she implored them to lie down, especially her 
father, who was not very strong at best, but he would 
not leave her. Then they prevailed upon Mrs. Russell 
to go and lie down, which she did, knowing that if she 
hoped to accomplish anything toward Cora’s salva- 
tion, she must not waste all her strength before her 
opportunities presented themselves. 

So she went away, and, as it was late before she fell 


HAYNE HOME. 


238 

asleep, it was very late in the morning when she re- 
turned to her daughter’s chamber. Early that morning 
Florence and Isabel set out for a walk. Florence’s 
father accompanied them, and it was with a proud 
air and complacent smile that he listened to their 
cheery chatter and happy, girlish confidences. Florence 
grasped her father’s arm upon leaving the house, and 
had not relinquished her hold upon it since. Her father 
could not hide the pride he felt in the possession of such 
a charming daughter. He listened enraptured to her 
voice, and her faintest smile brought a smile to his face. 

They called at Cora’s home only to be informed that 
Cora had been overtaxed the previous day and was 
now too ill to be seen. So they left tender messages 
and went away. 

For four days life was very quiet at the house of the 
Russells, and the young people at Wicksburr were en- 
joying a few quiet visits together, deferring all their 
excursions of particular interest until Cora should be 
able to join them. Every day they called to see her but 
were only granted the shortest interview, as the physician 
had insisted upon absolute quiet. 

One morning Florence mentioned, casually, the 
name of Dayne’s mother. Mrs. Russell instantly in- 
quired : 

"‘Has Mrs. Warwich returned home from Mobile, 
Florence.? ” 

“Yes; my aunt returned yesterday morning, and, 
learning that Dayne was here, came down last night. ” 

“And how long will she remain?” Mrs. Russell 
asked. 

“I understood her to say they would remain over 
Sunday.” 


A DISCOVERY. 


239 

*^This is Friday. I shall be pleased to see Mrs. 
Warwich before she returns to town. You may tell 
her so, Florence.” 

“ I will, thank you ; ” and then they talked of other 
affairs until they had made an extended visit When 
they arose to leave they both stood beside the chair in 
which Cora lay and told her how much they desired to 
welcome her back to their circle, and mentioned a 
number of anticipated visits they hoped her to join 
them in. As they stood beside Cora’s chair Mrs. Russell 
could not but admire their personal charms. She 
thought, not without a little disdain : ‘ * They are well 
matched. Isabel is weak, but Florence has spirit 
enough for both ; they are so nearly the same in stature 
that they might be taken for twins. They are hand- 
some girls, but they pale beside my child.” 

The next day Mrs. Russell gave minutest directions to 
the maid regarding Cora’s medicines, and stated that 
she had an errand which could not be trusted to any 
one else. She put on a neat little bonnet to match the 
walking costume she wore, and threw a visite upon her 
arm, as the days were getting cool. She walked over to 
Wicksburr and, arriving at the house, was admitted by 
Jane, who informed her that Mrs. Warwich, senior, 
was not in, but Mrs. Philip Warwich would see her. 

The conversation was constrained and embarrassing. 
Mrs. Warwich did not understand why it was so, but 
her shyness was provoked by the constraint in Mrs. 
Russell’s manner. Finally, when the latter could no 
longer endure the suspense, she asked if she might be 
allowed to speak confidentially without danger of being 
overheard. Mary replied that there was no one in the 
house but herself and Jane. The latter being in the 


240 


HA YNE HOME. 


kitchen was quite beyond the reach of their voices. 
Then Mrs. Russell began : 

“My mission, Mrs. Warwich, is painful to me and 
will be as much so to you. I want to ask you where 
your son's affections are fixed, or if he is in love at 
all .? " 

Mary looked perfectly amazed and did not answer. 
The idea occurred to her that Dayne had, in his reck- 
less fun-loving way, been carrying on an innocent 
flirtation with Cora, but she could not entertain the 
thought for an instant. Therefore she only looked the 
surprise she could not utter. 

“You do not answer me; either you do not choose 
to, or you do not know ; which is it Mrs. Warwich ? " 
Mrs. Russell asked, imperatively. 

“Mrs. Russell, even if I knew anything of my son’s 
love affairs, I am too dazed now to answer, and, per- 
haps, if I were not surprised, I should not care to min- 
gle my gossip with his affairs.” 

“ Your gossip ? I understand the hint, Mrs. Warwich, 
and beg you in kindness to tell me if he loves Florence 
or not. He has always paid her marked attention ; 
though, so far as we have ever been able to learn, he 
has not made love to. her.” 

“I cannot see why his and Florence’s friendship 
should concern our neighbors ? I hope they are old 
enough to use some discretion, Mrs. Russell,” Mary 
answered, warmly, and Mrs. Russell heaved a sigh of 
annoyance, and continued : 

“They are very discreet. You will not give me the 
satisfaction I desire, so I will have to make known my 
wish without it. I have other plans' for your son, and if 
he is not bound to any one else, it will be so much better.” 


A DISCOVERY. 


241 


Mary’s face flushed with indignation, but she did not 
interrupt the familiarity that insulted her. “ But I 
must tell you first that it is humiliating to me to do 
this, but it is for my child’s sake, Mrs. Warwich. My 
daughter is unfortunately hopelessly in love with 
Walter Reynolds, and — ” She stopped to regain her fast 
failing courage, and Mary interrupted her with a voice 
full of cutting scorn : 

“Pray hasten on, I am anxious to know what Dayne 
can have to do with your daughter’s love for Walter.” 

“Mrs. Warwich, I pray you do not make my task 
harder than it really is, for I assure you I have only 
the kindliest feeling for you and will be your friend if 
you will only use your influence to persuade Dayne to 
marry Isabel. There !-it is all told. I want your son to 
marry Isabel to get her out of the way of Cora’s love. 
Cora is all I have. I cannot see her sacrificed thus. 
O, Mrs. Warwich, it is a mother pleading for’ her child. 
Grant my prayer,” and she sobbed aloud. 

Mary drew her figure up proudly, and answered : 

“You ask me to sell my boy for your friendship. I 
don’t want it, Mrs. Russell. Again, you ask me to 
sacrifice my only child to save your only child. That 
is noble. I know without your telling me that it is a 
mother pleading for her only child. A selfish mother 
praying to a mother to sacrifice the latter’s child for the 
child of the other. I can’t grasp your idea, Mrs. Russell ; 
either you are quite overtaxed with watching Cora, or 
you are a selfish, intriguing mother. I know not 
which ; but let us understand each other right now. I 
do not know anything about Day ne’s friendships of late. 
I used to think, and have always hoped, that he would 
love Florence. I am, however, on account of his long 

16 


242 


HA YNE HOME. 


absences from me, unable to say whether or not their 
friendship has ripened or faded ; at any rate, Mrs. 
Russell, I shall not interfere. I selected my husband 
and I think my son is capable of selecting a suitable 
wife.” 


“Mrs. Warwich, I came over here to solicit your 
help. I thought your gentle disposition and goodness 
would be to my advantage ; I am mistaken ; you can 
be obdurate as well as I,” Mrs. Russell answered, 
quietly. 

“Judge me by yourself, Mrs. Russell. Certainly I 
can and will be obdurate. What mother would not 
resent such a selfish behest? The times of sacrifices 
and kings slaying children are past ; they belong to 
barbaric ages, Mrs. Russell, and I repeat, I will be 
obdurate. I shall be most deeply grieved to learn 
that Cora is disappointed. I entertain the deepest regard 
for her ; but I love my boy, perhaps as well as you love 
your daughter. If he should learn to love Isabel, and 


the Iqy^.^iy^^j.r^pipr^pated,^ I should be very glad to 

^ee ;^^m;;ip^rr-y,. ,. ,^eJL .as 

pitjieq.”. ;M^ryf^'_vmce|<^ied^pay;Jn 
pppljd npt[rie^lize,. pyep yeiy th.a,l; ithi^ wom^p 

fiurwglljfl i9P51 ft 

..pasft ..'yjriaft 

!ft9fider-.^lWfhe h3^,^rpan;>^4;:h!ni h'oi.t rr.; 

^orp.^eaujiffjl andap^^inaijjj^pg^tp. ^ 

,frru I .oono-iofd i;vol 

di 


A DISCOVERY. 


243 


Certainly, anyone ought to be proud of her, but 
that does not signify that she would accept Dayne, if 
he offered himself. I repeat that I am sorry Cora is 
unhappy, but your request is the most unheard-of one 
in the world, and I decline to meddle with other 
people’s affairs.” Mary said this in such a withering 
voice, that however loath Mrs. Russell was to meet ex- 
tremes, she forgot her loathing now under the scorching 
scorn that fairly emitted sparks from Mary’s eyes. 

“Mrs. Warwich, you drive me to extreme measures. 

I came over wishing to do only what is fair ; you 
raise yourself so loftily above meddling with other 
people’s affairs that I think I may quote an old adage 
with perfect fitness ; and that is relative to sweeping 
one’s own dooryard.” She stopped to note the effect 
of her words. Mary’s face still wore that look of calm 
scorn ; she did not flush nor pale at the thrust of Mrs. 
Russell’s remark. 

“I am in ignorance again of your motive; when 
you please you may enlighten me, and I shall be 
able to talk freely, if you mean that there is any- 
thing in my life that should be erased I should like 
you to tell me of it, for I cannot now recall it.” 

Mrs. Russell had torn the page containing the 
alphabet from the book and now drew it from her 
pocket. Leisurely she opened it and smoothed out 
its creases. 

“Can you read that cipher, Mrs. Warwich ” 

“ Certainly I can, as readily as English. My 
husband and I corresponded this way during our 
betrothal while he was at school.” Her face betrayed 
the least amusement as she recalled the many charming 
letters which had come to her in these characters. 


244 


HA YNE HOME. 


“ Your husband evidently used this cipher for another 
purpose after his marriage/’ 

“ For what purpose, Mrs. Russell.?'’ 

“Keeping a diary.” 

“Oh, is that all? ” Mary asked, with a sigh of 
relief. 

“ It is enough, Mrs. Warvvich, to convince me that 
your husband is a wicked and designing man. This little 
yellow diary has told tales that doubtless he had hoped 
to carry to the grave untold. You can read this cipher 
you say, Mrs. Warwich ; you would better read it. I 
fancy you will know your husband better when you 
have ^ead/^^^/ page.’' Mary looked clear over the book 
at Mrs. Russell, and, rising to her feet, exclaimed 
proudly : 

“ Mrs. Russell, I cannot credit my sense of hear- 
ing. You, whom I have always respected as the 
embodiment of culture and refinement, to come to 
me under the guise of a friendly visitor and hand 
over to me a journal, the private thoughts of my 
husband, and acknowledge in this bold-faced man- 
ner that you have dared to interpret that writing 
and learn such things as my husband chose only to 
tell to the mute pages of his journal, is something 
that surpasses my ideas of honor ! I decline to 
read it ; if Mr. Warwich had deemed it best not to 
tell me what he has unwisely trusted to that little 
volume, I shall not at this late hour pry into it. I 
never suspected my husband of disloyalty, and I do 
not now believe him capable of doing anything so 
dishonorable as this thing that you have done.” 

When she had finished her passionate speech she 
stood defiantly facing the woman who sat in per- 


A TROTH. 


245 

feet complacency before her, and listened with unusual 
calmness to the words that Mary had hurled at her. 
When Mrs. Warwich had ceased speaking her visitor 
drew a dainty sigh, and, with a stage like gesture — a 
shrug and a wave of the hand, with an aggravating 
pose of the eyebrows, replied : 

“ Mrs. Warwich, I believe everything you say about 
your faith in your husband. Since I have lived in this 
neighborhood I have • often heard it remarked that no 
marriage bonds had ever held more contentment and 
perfect happiness than yours. I am sorry to be the one 
to shatter that happiness ; but everyone must suffer 
sometime, and now your day of suffering is at hand. 
Read this book. There is disgrace, nay, crime there, 
and when you have read it you will understand how 
tightly and securely I hold you in my power.” 


CHAPTER XXIL 

A TROTH. 

When shall we know each other, love ? 

In age, when worthy lives shall prove— 

Ah, that were late ; 

Shall it not be till one must kneel, 

Shedding hot tears the other cannot feel, 

And blaming fate ? 

— A. Tresize Saunders. 

Mary’s lip curled scornfully as she reached out her 
hand to take the book from Mrs. Russell. Having 
clasped her fingers tightly over it, she raised her eyes, 
deliberately and coldly, to meet the gaze of her visitor. 


246 


HA YNE HOME. 


Her hand did not tremble, neither did her voice falter 
as she proudly said ; 

“Yes, I will read it ; not to pry into my husband's 
thoughts, but to defend his fair name. There may be a 
mistake here. This writing looks very much like his. 
This cipher, I believe is known only to ourselves, and if 
there is crime here there is a mistake somewhere. If 
you have read it correctly, and find that there is decep- 
tion here, the book is a fraud. My husband could com- 
mit no crime." But still she did not open the book. 

“Read that page, and see," Mrs. Russell said im- 
patiently. 

And then Mary opened the little musty volume, and 
carefully seated herself to read it. By and by the proud 
smile left her face, her eyes dilated, and her breath 
came in gasps. She must have cried out but for the 
tightly-clenched teeth, through which nothing but a 
groan could press itself. The torture she silently en- 
dured was beyond Mrs. Russell's comprehension. She 
could not have felt the exultation she did feel had she 
known that Mrs. Warwich suffered a thousand deaths 
in that little period. When she had read to the very 
end” of the page she loosened her grasp on the little 
book, which fell noiselessly to the floor, and sank 
back in her chair with heartrending moans. Mrs. 
Russell stepped quietly forward, put the book in her 
pocket, and left the room. Poor Mary, perfectly con- 
scious of her suffering, but oblivious to all else, 
moaned and moaned, but uttered not one word until 
the hissing sound in her ears died away and her brain 
seemed clearing, then she opened her eyes, and regret- 
fully murmured : ‘ ‘ My husband ! " 

She dreaded to look about her. It seemed to her 


A TROTH. 


247 

that a sight of Mrs. RusseH’s cruel face would drive her 
mad. She shivered at the remembrance of her voice. 
She lay there, trying to build up her hope upon some- 
thing. Surely some plan would eventually suggest 
itself, for she had always been truthful herself, and did 
not know 


What a tangled web we weave 
When first we practice to deceive. 

But she would shield Philip for love’s sake and for 
Dayne’s sake, but she could not sacrifice Dayne to save 
his father. On the other hand, the only thing that 
could be done was to place the case before her son, 
and let him choose between happiness and disgrace. 
How she trembled and swayed as she arose from her 
chair and tottered feebly to the door. Her face was 
blanched to marble whiteness, and her lips were 
pressed tightly together. At first she experienced un- 
utterable relief at not finding Mrs. Russell’s exultant 
eyes watching her misery ; but now she regretted 
that she must go in search of her, but she went, and 
found her complacently watching some tame pigeons 
picking their breakfast from the crumbs that Florence 
had scattered for them. The opening of the door 
attracted her attention. She arose and came instantly 
forward. 

“ I am sorry, Mrs. Warwich, to have caused you such 
grief.” 

Grief, Mrs. Russell It it worse than that. It 
is living death. Can you picture misery like mine? 
Can you feel for one instant a tenth of my torture? 
Oh, Mrs. Russell, this morning I thought no one 
so blest as I. When I went to bed last night, with 


HAYNE HOME. 


248 

my boy’s kiss yet warm upon my lips, I thanked God 
.for His goodness to me. I could not understand why 
I should be blest wdth so true a husband and so noble 
a son, when some poor women, more worthy than I, 
should have trouble and care. Can you imagine this 
awakening .? ” 

“I am sure it is very hard, and I am sorry for 
you,” Mrs. Russell said, quietly. 

“And you will not be hard upon me? You will 
give me the book and ” 

“You know on what condition.” 

“You still hold to your proposition ?” Mary asked, 
faintly. 

“Yes, I still hold to that.” 

“What if I refuse to accede to it?” Mary asked, 
frigidly. 

With a shrug, Mrs. Russell answered: “ Then I 
would not give much for your peace in this com- 
munity. ” 

“You will not keep the knowledge of this a secret?” 
Mary cried, in distress. 

“For nothing? No! You know what I came here 
for.” 

“ And my son is the price of your silence ? ” inter- 
rogated Mary. 

“Yes, Mrs. Warwich. When yOur son is the hus- 
band of Isabel I will hand over this book, and promise 
silence. Thenceforth you will have nothing to fear 
from me.” 

“ Oh, my precious boy 1” Mary cried, covering her 
face with her hands, “ how shall I tell it to you ? ” 

“I will tell him if you — ” Mrs. Russell began; but 
Mrs. Warwich interrupted her by exclaiming, frantically : 


A TROTH. 


249 

‘‘No, no; I will tell him. I am the one to stab my 
boy.” 

“ Well, I cannot tarry here, Mrs. Warwich. I will 
give you an opportunity to speak to your son. Will 
you tell me when I may call for my answer.?” Mrs. 
Russell said, rising to go. 

“Not soon. Surely you do not mean to hurry this 
matter up ? You will give us time ? ” Mary implored. 

“ Now, Mrs. Warwich, the case lies between us this 
way : The longer we delay the more Cora will suffer, 
and the peace will be on your side the sooner it is over 
— well vice versa you know. You are gaining nothing 
whatever for yourselves by a delay. The sooner it is 
over the sooner you will get accustomed to it.” 

“You go about it in such a cruel, cold-blooded ^vay 
that I cannot imagine you realize that you are dealing 
with human passions. ’’ 

Infuriated, Mrs. Russell exclaimed, stepping closer to 
Mary: “Mrs. Warwich, I acknowledge that I am hard 
upon you ; but I would be harder yet for Cora's sake. 
I would go to direst extremes for her. All the feeling 
and passion of my heart is centred in my child. Yes, I 
could be harder still for Cora's sake.” 

“Cora ought to be proud of this devotion,” Mary 
replied, with withering contempt. “She is more con- 
scientious than her mother. I wonder how she would 
take such overtures ? ” 

“Mrs, Warwich, I will give you until Saturday-night 
to settle this between Dayne and Isabel. You would 
better invite me to witness the ceremony, I never should 
feel satisfied with the papers. Arrange jt to suit your- 
self, and let me witness the ceremony, and then I shall 
hold my peace.” 


2 so 


HAYNE HOME. 


The door closed, and she was gone. 

Mrs. Warwich excused herself that evening on the plea 
of a violent headache, and, instead of coming down to 
dinner, remained in her room walking the floor, wring- 
ing her hands, and crying and praying for help. Thus 
Dayne found her, when, in answer to her summons, he 
appeared at her door and rapped for admittance. He 
stepped back in alarm at her white face, with the dark 
circles beneath her eyes and the white, trembling lips. 

Great heaven, mother! What is the matter?’' 
She threw herself in his arms and sobbed : 

‘‘Oh, Dayne, if you were only my baby yet, that I 
might save you this ! ” 

“ This what, dear? Remember, I don’t know what 
grieves you. Tell me quick, what has happened,” he 
cried, in consternation. 

“ That dreadful woman 1 She will do all she says. 
She will ruin your father and you. We shall all be 
disgraced. ” 

“Mother calm yourself. I cannot help you until you 
do.” 

“You can never help me, Dayne, and I am power- 
less to help you,” she whispered, hoarsely. 

“ Well, then, dear, tell me what has happened. What 
dreadful woman do you mean ? ” 

Mary summoned all her courage and stifled her agita- 
tion the best she could. Dayne thought her the noblest 
womari earth held as he watched her choking down her 
sobs, talking in broken sentences, and clinging to him 
like a little child. 

“My son, some one committed a cruel deed years ago 
and you and I must suffer for it. That is always the 
way. We must pay the penalty. How can I tell you 


A TROTH. 


251 

it, Dayne ? It tears my heart out to look into your 
eyes and tell you this dreadful truth. He drew her 
gently down upon a sofa beside him, and said gently 
stroking her hair : 

“ Go on, dear ; don’t think of me. I am only sorry 
for you. First begin at the beginning. Who commit- 
ted the deed ? 

“My husband.” She felt him start, but he answered, 
softly : 

‘ ‘ Father .? What has he done ? ” 

“ My boy, it is a dreadful thing to tell. Be as lenient 
as you can. Your father and I urged Lawrence and 
Adele to get married. I swear to you, Dayne, before 
Heaven, that I believed all was right until to-day. That 
is what I have to tell you. He was to bring the min- 
ister, and, instead of employing a minister, he sent 
Cronie to the city, and he hired one of his chums to 
come and perform the ceremony. Your, father paid 
the man, through Cronie, thirty dollars to do it. Oh 
that dreadful morning ! No wonder the heavens were 
angry and cried out against us. ” 

“ Mother, is this true.? Did my father ever do such a 
cowardly thing .? Can there not be some mistake ? Oh, 
surely, surely my father could not be guilty of that. 
How can you believe it, mother.?” Dayne cried, wildly, 
rubbing his eyes as though to awake from some hideous 
dream. 

“Ah, son, I would only too gladly grasp at a possi- 
bility of error, but this afternoon I have lived again all 
these years, lived through their happiness, misery, and 
all here are spots that I thought then were white — they 
were black. Your father had an undying hatred for 
Lawrence, but so effectually did he hide it that even I 


252 


HA YNE HOME. 


had no idea of it, but I can see it now. Oh, Philip, why- 
have you been so good to me ? It makes this grief so 
much greater.” 

“Poor, little, tender mother, who could help being 
good to you .? But tell me how you found this out, I 
know so little.” 

“ Dayne, would you sacrifice your happiness, your 
love, and all your hopes to hide this secret and save us 
this disgrace ?” his motherasked with wistful tears stand- 
ing in her eyes. 

“ It depends, mother,” he replied, “ upon how effect- 
ually a sacrifice would hide it ; if it is known to any 
one, and from all I have gathered I understand some 
woman has threatened you with it, it will not be hid- 
den long. Has some one learned the secret? ” 

“Yes. ” 

“And is trying to extort money, I suppose ? ” 

“Money? I never thought of that. No, if it were 
money I should pour it like rain until it is all gone, 
then how gladly would I work for more ! Oh, no, my 
boy, for once money will not suffice ; the penalty 
strikes deeper than our purse,” she murmured wearily. 

“But, mother mine, if you could guess just what 
my feelings are at present, you would make one more 
effort to enlighten me.” 

“Well, my boy, ask me — ask me anything — I seem 
to have lost my power to think ! I can remember but 
one thing ; that is, that it rests with you to hide our 
shame ; perhaps you will refuse to marry her even, 
for ” 

“Marry whom ? ” Dayne gasped. 

“Oh, I forgot ; you do not know. My son, the price 
of her silence is your marriage with Isabel.” 


A TROTH. 


^53 

Dayne’s dumb stare seemed to recall his .mother’s 
scattered senses. Excitedly she hurried over the sub- 
stance. 

“You see, Dayne, it happened this way : your 
father kept a diary in cipher, in which he chronicled 
all of this treacherous deed, and that ill-fated diary is 
in Mrs. Russell’s possession. How she obtained it I do 
not know, but I do know that she flaunted it before my 
eyes and tried to make me read it. I only read one 
page, but it froze my brain ; and God knows what the 
other pages are stained with.” 

“ But how could ske know what it contained if it was 
in cipher ? ” 

His mother explained, incoherently adding, “Yes, 
yes ; the price of her silence is Isabel’s hand. Cora 
loves Walter, and Mrs. Russell thinks Walter loves 
Isabel, and wants her out of the way. Dayne, you 
look defiant. Tell me what you will do. Will you 
marry Isabel to save your father ? Think of the shame 
and disgrace we must suffer ! Think of your father’s 
punishment. Oh, Dayne, I pray you marry her, marry 
her ! I shall die if disgrace overtake us. I could not 
live and suffer this degradation. Dayne, speak to me ; 
tell me what you will do.” 

Mary having wrought herself into a frenzy, rocked to 
and fro, wringing her hands and moaning, while the 
boy sat with his head resting in his hands, the picture 
of despair. Slowly raising his white face, he said sul- 
lenly : 

“ Mother, you forget that the choice is not all on my 
side. I grant that marrying a charming girl like Isabel 
is not of itself terrifying, but she is at liberty to refuse.” 

“ Yes, but she will not. Why, my son, she will not 


254 


HA YNE HOME, 


dare refuse ! Think of the misery and disgrace in store 
for them if she will not accede. Think what she is. 
Ah, dear God ! Isabel could not live under the scorpion 
touch of disgrace. She will not refuse — ask her, Dayne ; 
ask her/’ 

“She had better be dead in the flesh than live on 
with nothing alive in her heart. I should rather ask her 
to die with me than this other. For God’s sake, mother, 
can it be that you have lived with father all these 
years, without having discovered the taint of sin in 
him .? ” and Dayne walked across the floor, vehemently 
brushing his hand across his brow, where the moisture 
glistened in little beads. 

“ Don’t, Dayne I He is your father. He is my hus- 
band, and none better ever lived. Save us Dayne, save 
usr' 

“There, there, little suffering mother, don’t despair ; 
something will surely come up to help us. We can’t 
do anything any way until we see father ” 

“ Oh, my child, he cannot possibly come before Mon- 
day, and she will not wait longer than Saturday night. 
The whole world would know of it before Monday. 
We dare not wait.” 

With a long-drawn sigh, the poor boy muttered : 
“All right, mother, don’t cry any more. I’ll see Isabel 
to-night and if she will take me ‘ for worse ’ I will do 
my part.” When he looked down upon her she was 
swaying, and should have fallen, had he not caught 
her, and gently laying her on the lounge, called for 
Jane. 

Before the old servant had reached them, however, 
Mary opened her eyes and feebly cried : 

“Go and ask her, Dayne — Go ! don’t mind me — go 


A TROTH, 


255 

to her — that will help me more than anything else. Go, 
dear, Jane will care for me.'’ 

Her distress was so pitiable, he could not refuse her. 
Kissing her tenderly, with quivering lips, he went in 
search of Isabel, finding her almost before he had begun 
the search. 

A low balcony on the front side of the house em- 
braced the two windows of Isabel's room and one 
opening from a guest chamber, at present occupied by 
Mrs. Warwich. 

As Dayne turned to leave his mother a low sound 
reached his ear, which seemed to come from the balcony. 
At any other time he might not have felt curious 
enough to investigate. Being so disturbed to-night, 
even that indefinable sound filled him with instinctive 
dread, and impelled him to turn and look out upon the 
balcony, where, crouched upon a low stool, her head 
resting against the iron grating, sat Isabel. Her face, 
like chiseled marble, shone white in the purple twilight. 
The petals of the roses that clambered over the railing 
w^fe, ^^ing ,^H;}arppnd,»ta^rithppgh in her mute anguish 
§1\^, ^jejr, stems and let the evening 

skbwt to, just as the happy days 
ypqng life ^iV^^rp scattered about in her memory. 

t^; 5 S,-pp;'he^, face, no sobs rose to her 
white lips, ppl^y tto moaning. 

.j..,f}^ypei;ffpfgp.t-)to fP!'KiI'^^^to~what was his torture 
,^p[^pare4/ftp,,ift)at;,pf-|^tlli^ iW)H-ite, helpless thing that 
Iprpv^hpdfafpppgitheipitying fP^es ! He stepped through 
jt][ipjyi^indjp{vy;apdj(l<fpqlt .. beside .her, but could think of 
.npfhjpg ^Pj^ay. MilDof) 

Vr rose-leaves to his face, 

and then flung ipvjt/J^erriariP^l^jto him, crying : “Oh tell 


HA YNE HOME. 


256 

me this is not true ! tell me it is a nightmare, a hideous 
dream, or that I am insane — tell me anything but that 
it is' true ! ” 

Poor Isabel ! it is true — sadly true. How much 
have you heard ? 

“All — every cruel word. It chained me here ; I could 
not get away. Oh, Cousin Dayne, why need it be true } ” 

“ It is best that you have heard it, Isabel ; better than 
having me tell it. You know what I am here for .? I 
cannot offer you any comfort — there is none. You will 
sooner or later hate me for this treachery of my father ; 

I would not blame you, Isabel, though God knows how 
I loathe the thought of it. This woman has us in her 
power and there is but one escape. That is for us to 
marry. I leave it to you, Isabel, '' and his voice quiv- 
ered just a little, “to choose between the two — unhap- 
piness or disgrace. If you will marry me I will be all 
that you wish, do all that you desire. I will devote my 
life to your comfort. I cannot promise to make you 
happy, but I shall gratify your slightest wish. I would 
give you my life in payment for my father s sin if it 
would cancel the wrong, but it will not ; and now I 
offer you all that I can — my name and protection. Will 
you take it, Isabel ? ” His voice was so soft and tender 
and kind it smote her conscience, and impulsively she 
threw out her hands to him and whispered : 

“Dayne, you are so noble and good, your courage 
makes me ashamed ; you offer me this protection so 
kindly, just as though every hope of your life would 
not be shattered. I am a coward not to either accept 
it gratefully and gladly, or else decline it and face dis- 
grace courageously. What would happen, Dayne, if 
we do not marry ? ” she asked in despair. 


A TROTH. 


257 

‘‘My father would never dare to come home. I 
should take mother away from the disgrace, and devote 
my life to making her at least comfortable. ” 

“And what of me.?” she asked, incredulously. 

He shuddered with pity for the hapless girl who had 
done no wrong, but who could never hold up her head 
in pride again. “Isabel, you will be better off as 
my wife, ” he said, simply. She turned her white face 
to him in the starlight and in sheer desperation decided 
their fate. 

“ Dayne, I will marry you conditionally.” 

“Yes, explain,” he answered, faintly. 

“There is no use for us to attempt such a farce as 
contentment together. You have other hopes and I — 
well. Cousin Dayne, I could not esteem anyone more 
than I do you, but that kind of love is so different, 
though I shall always love you as the noblest man I 
know; but Dayne, we would better make the sacrifice 
and let that end it so far as we are concerned. Let us 
be bound with marriage ties, and — ” she stopped. Her 
voice was so husky she could not finish for awhile. 
“ And then you go your way and I’ll go mine. Will 
you do this, Dayne ? ” 

“ I will do whatever you wish,” he said, meekly. 

“ Could we be married secretly, without the least 
shadow of suspicion .? ” 

“Why are you so particular, Isabel ? Why need you 
care ? ” 

“I may as well tell you the truth, Dayne. I am 
only doing this for mamma’s sake. I am sure this 
will kill her if she finds it out, and I prefer she should 
not know it” 


17 


HA YNE HOME. 


258 

“ But, Isabel, they must know it, for they will have 
to go through another ceremony. ” 

“Well, they can arrange that afterward. Let our 
marriage be secret, Dayne.” 

He could not refuse the wistfulness in her voice, so 
he answered : “Very well, Isabel, it shall be secret. I 
have it, Isabel, the ceremony shall take place — when ? 
to-night } 

“Any time ; have it over or the suspense will kill me, 
Dayne. '' 

“I have a plan ; meet me in the summer-house to- 
night at eleven — that is only an hour and a half,'’ he 
said, consulting his watch, “ an hour-and-a-half of this 
suspense, Isabel, and then it will be over, and — then — 
well, I don’t know what then will be. We can only 
wait and see. Will you be at the summer-house.'* ” 

“ Yes ; but promise me, Dayne, you will never make 
any claims upon me, nor exact any duties from me, 
nor ever speak of it until I give you leave ? ” 

“Isabel you areas free as the air, so far as I am con- 
cerned. I will never intrude. Go in now, the dew is 
falling heavily.” 

She stepped through the low window, into the dark- 
ened chamber. Dayne escaped through his mother’s 
chamber, and went out into the starlight. 


A MIDNIGHT MAKKIAGE. 


259 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE. 

I’m sad this hour, with spirits drooping low, 

All charms of life are losing fast their glow; 

The brilliant sky of youth is dark to-day, 

Its dreamy views all having passed away. 

The tide of time is swifter in its speed, 

Nor giving to my woes a passing heed, 

As I proceed along the downward line 
Unto the closing drama of my time. 

— Carl Cadmus. 

On the principal street of the pretty little town near 
Hayne Home lived John Jason, the Justice of the 
Peace. He was sitting in his library, with his feet en- 
cased in slippers, and a dressing-gown wrapped snugly 
about his portly figure. A noise caused him to drop 
his paper and turn his eyes towards the glass door, 
upon which was one of those old-fashioned gongs that 
make one's ears ring with its piercing sound. The old 
gentleman arose from his comfortable chair and drew a 
deep, long breath as he muttered ; “Well, who is after 
me at this ghostly hour ? ’’ 

He fiung open the door, and met on the threshold a 
surprise in the form of a pretty, bright-eyed, but very 
pale young lady. He invited her in, expressing his as- 
tonishment at receiving a visit from so dainty a guest 
at such an unseasonable hour. She talked hurriedly, 
supplicating him to grant her a favor. He was a gen- 


26 o 


HA YNE HOME. 


erous, kind-hearted man, and, having once lost an adored 
daughter, was always most tender with girls, and this 
one was so sweet, so pale and pathetic, he felt the 
deepest, sincerest sympathy for her. He listened to 
her tale, and stroked her hair kindly, occasionally giving 
expression to his interest in what she was telling him. 
She had been there nearly twenty minutes when a sound 
of approaching wheels broke the stillness of the outer 
world, and set the visitor’s nimble fingers to flying ner- 
vously to fasten the long, dark cloak that enveloped 
her slight figure. 

“There they are, now. I will slip through the hall. 

You will do this for me, because ” Then she raised 

her eyes to his face, and tremblingly asked : “ It is not 
wicked ” 

“No, Miss Hayne, it is not wicked.” 

“And it is not unlawful .? ” 

“No, my poor, dear child, it is not unlawful.” 

She took his hand between her own and said : “Then 
you will do it, squire.? Will you not help me.? You 
say it would be neither wicked nor unlawful ; then will 
you not do it? Promise me, quick. Will you not help 
me .? ” A sound of that terrible gong pierced their ears. 

‘ ‘ Oh, there they are, and you have not promised ! ” 

He pushed her hair back from the smooth, white 
brow", and kissed her as reverently as though she were 
his own petted child. A tear was stealing slowly down 
his cheek as he patted her head and said : 

“Go now, my child. I give you my promise; I will 
help you.” And in grateful love she laid her lips upon 
the old man’s hand and kissed it ; then, darting through 
the hall and out into the night, she climbed upon a 
horse that waited in ambush, and rode slowly home 


A M/nmCHT MARRIAGE, 261 

through the darkness, which would have been intense 
but for the stars that twinkled sadly upon her. 

“Squire Jason’s later visitors were Dayne Warwich 
and his mother. He admitted them, and listened kindly 
to the tale of woe they unfolded. Mrs. Warwich omitted 
her husband’s name and the part he had to do with the 
false marriage. They allowed the old gentleman to 
surmise what he pleased about the unfortunate position 
they were occupying. Mary’s voice failed her often, 
and Dayne was obliged to help her out with the narra- 
tive, which was at last finished. With dreary appre- 
hension they awaited his judgment. After a long 
deliberation, he said : 

“Mrs. Warwich, there is something very mysterious 
about the circumstances ; but I presume I know as much 
as I have a right to expect ; and on account of our long 
acquaintance I feel bound to help you. It is almost 
eleven o’clock now. We will not much more than 
reach the place in time. Why did you not bring the 
young lady along with you ? It could have been done 
here as well.” 

“ Remember, Squire, the ceremony is sacrifice 
enough, without the strain on her nerves this ride would 
cause,” Dayne replied. 

“You are right. I admire your courage and spirit, 
Dayne. You are a noble boy,” Squire Jason said, 
kindly, and, seating himself at his desk, proceeded to 
make out the license. Dayne walked restlessly to and 
fro, while his mother sat tapping the carpet with her foot. 

When the papers were all made out the Squire folded 
them neatly and placed them in his pocket, then went 
out into the night with his guests, and at six minutes 
before eleven they entered the summer-house which 


262 


HA YNE HOME. 


stood on the bank of Mill Creek, just at the foot of Aunt 
Prue’s garden. 

When they entered a little figure, clad in a long cloak 
of dark blue cloth, and a lace scarf wound carelessly 
around her head, came forward to meet them. 

“ I am here, Dayne,” she said, softly. 

And he took the pretty little hand, so cold and trem- 
bling, between his own, and answered : 

“Are you very miserable, Isabel.?" 

“Not so very miserable, Dayne ; but I wish it were 
otherwise. " 

His heart echoed the wish from its very core. 

Justice Jason came forward, and announced that as 
the parties were all there they would proceed at once 
with the ceremony. Dayne turned and looked about 
him, and discovered in the dark recess of the little house 
a figure muffled up in a cloak and scarf. He could not 
see her face, but he knew that it was Mrs. Russell. 

Stooping, he whispered ; ‘ ‘ Did you have any con- 
versation with her, Isabel ? " 

“No. I begged her not to talk to me." And she 
instinctively clung closer to Dayne. 

They turned and stood before the magistrate. The 
ceremony was brief. Isabel answered the questions 
put to her in an almost inaudible voice, and trembled 
and leaned heavily on Dayne. 

The silence was distressing. It seemed they must 
hear her heart beat When the last tones of the old man s 
voice died away, and he had solemnly pronounced them 
husband and wife, Dayne turned to his poor, frightened 
little wife and said : 

“You will go back to the house with mother. I have 
to take Squire Jason home." 


A MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE. 


263 

There were no congratulations nor happy expressions 
for their future. Mrs. Warwich came forward and put 
her arm about Isabel’s waist, who covered her face and 
sobbed. 

“You are a noble girl, Isabel. It pains me so much 
to have made you suffer.” 

“It is not your fault. Aunt Mary. You could not 
help it.” And the voice sounded sweet in its pathos. 

Mrs. Russell came forward, and said, in a low voice 
that made the others shiver : 

“It is all over now. I shall never molest you again. 
Here is your book, Mrs. Warwich.” She placed the 
book in Mrs. Warwick’s hand and turned to leave. 
Dayne put his companion gently from him, and went 
nearer to the woman who had caused all this disaster. 

“Mrs. Russell,” he began politely, “you did not care 
to accept our word regarding the sincerity of our inten- 
tions. I hope you are satisfied ? ” 

“ I have expressed myself so.” 

“Then you vdll pardon me if I ask for further assur- 
ance of the safety of our secret at your hands. Will you 
take oath .? ” 

At first she was silent. They could not see in the 
darkness what produced her silence, but it was of short 
duration. She assented to Dayne's wish, and Justice 
Jason administered the oath. 

Mrs. Russell passed out into the night. Squire Jason 
came to the shrinking bride and took her hands in his, 
and said, in the kindliest voice : 

“ I always like to look into the eyes of brides. It is 
so dark here, I cannot even see your face ; but I hope 
your life, dear child, may be bright and joyous, not- 
withstanding this dark hour. Be brave and patient and 


264 


HA YNE HOME, 


kind. Fill your hours with charitable deeds ; store 
your mind full of Christian thoughts, and then your life 
cannot but be pleasant. You have won a noble hus- 
band, one you may well be proud of. Some day, per- 
haps, it will be better to live openly as husband and 
wife. Then you will have an opportunity to show him 
what a prize he has won. ” The old man stopped, and 
would have drawn his hands away, but she grasped 
them, and rained kisses upon them. 

‘ ‘ Dayne, it is customary to give the certificate to the 
wife. I presume you have no objection ? " 

“Not in the least. Squire. Give it to Isabel. It is, 
however, not probable we shall have need of it,” Dayne 
said, with a sigh. 

What a wedding ! No flowers, but the wild roses 
that lay unnoticed, wet with dew, upon the garden 
fence. No music, save the ripple of the water that 
sounded mournfully sweet in the starlit night. No 
kisses of love, no congratulations — nothing that makes 
the wedding the crowning hour of womanhood. 

Gloom, sadness, dead hopes, and regret were all that 
could be remembered of the marriage of these two. 

The following morning Isabel was unable to rise. 
Florence sat by the bedside, regardless of the usual 
morning walk she was neglecting. When Mrs. War- 
wich had come to inquire why the young ladies did 
not come down to breakfast, and had been informed 
with utmost indifference that Isabel was not well, and 
that they would take some tea and toast in their room, 
Isabel turned her white face to Florence, and said, in 
a low whisper : 

“ Floss, I am going to tell you a secret, a terrible 
secret, mind, and you must promise me not to tell it. 


A M/DN/GHT MARRIAGE, 


265 


promise you will never breathe one word of it to a 
living soul." 

“I can readily promise you, Isabel, but, perhaps, 
you would better not tell it if it does not concern me." 

“Oh, I must speak of it to some one; I should go 
mad if I brooded over it alone. You will never tell it, 
Florence ? " 

“I promise faithfully, Isabel, never to tell it," Flor- 
ence answered. 

“You will be shocked I know, it is so strange. I 
was married in the garden last night at 1 1 o’clock, to 
Dayne." 

“Child, you are beside yourself, you were not mar- 
ried last night," Florence replied, decisively. 

“ But I was. I knew it would surprise you. Justice 
Jason married us," Isabel said, briefly, and immediately 
covered her face with her hands. 

“ Isabel, you were not out of your room last night, 
that I know of. You came in from the veranda damp 
with dew, don’t you remember? and I asked you to 
lie down. You must have dreamed it, Isabel." 

“No, Florence, I did not dream it. Dayne was on 
the veranda with me, and we agreed to be married at 
1 1 o’clock, and we were. I cannot tell you why, but 
it had to be so. ’’ 

“Where was I when you left the house?" asked 
Florence, seriously. 

“Sound asleep. I kissed your face before I went." 

“ My little cousin, I am very much inclined to think 
you were dreaming. I can’t believe that you could 
leave the room and return without waking me one time 
or the other. When did you come in ? " 


266 


HAYNE HOME. 


Isabel put her hand to her brow and stared in a 
dazed way before her, and replied, wonderingly : 

“ I cannot — why it is so strange — I cannot remember 
anything — but that we were married. I must have 
been only half conscious of my actions.’" 

^‘Was any one else there?” Florence asked, the 
corners of her mouth twitching threateningly. It seemed 
so ridiculous for Isabel to tell her this curious dream, 
and in such good faith too, it was almost amusing ; but 
not for worlds would she allow Isabel to perceive her 
disbelief ; it would do no harm for her to acquiesce 
until Isabel was fairly well, then they would speak of 
it again. To her question Isabel replied, vaguely : 

“ Yes — yes, others were there,” and Florence smiled, 
“but, Floss, I can’t remember anything about the ser- 
vice. I think I was only half alive. ” 

“I think so too,” Florence answered, demurely “but 
my poor little cousin, do not talk any more about it ; if 
you have had a wedding, I shall never forgive you for 
not taking me into your confidence.” 

“No, we will let the subject rest. I could not tell 
you. ” 

A tap on the door put an end to their conversation. 
Jane entered with a most dainty breakfast for two, and 
Mrs. Warwick senior followed. She was quite dis- 
tressed to find Isabel ill, and suggested that a doctor be 
summoned immediately, but to this the poor, pale little 
girl objected. 

“No, grandma, I do not need medicine. I sat too 
long in the dewy night air ; it has made me feverish. 
I shall be better presently,” Isabel replied, clasping her 
feverish hand over that of Mrs. Warwick. 

“I know what she wants, grandma,” Florence sug- 


A MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE. 


267 

gested. She wants to get out into the sunshine. She 
had dreary dreams, and this room seems peopled with the 
objects of her nightmare. I am going to bring her down 
by and by.'" 

“Well, now, little doctor, don't be premature with 
your prescriptions and make her worse," Mrs. Warwich 
said, kindly. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Florence is the sweetest nurse, grandma ; I could 
not be so very ill when she is with me." 

“ Here are some books Dayne brought over. I don’t 
know how the boy heard you were sick, but he came 
over and asked for the girls, and then handed these to 
me for Isabel. Perhaps he intended them for both of 
you, and sent them to Isabel after I told him she was ill." 

When Mrs. Warwich left the room, Isabel said, with 
closed eyes, “ Florence, do you think now that I am the 
victim of a dream ? " 

Florence's face turned crimson. She did not reply. 

As the day wore on and the throbbing ceased in 
Isabel’s temples, they brought her downstairs. 

Florence watched Dayne closely when she believed 
herself unobserved. His face wore a serious air and 
would flush at the slightest reference to either himself 
or Isabel. Nevertheless, he bestowed his most courte- 
ous attention upon his wife. He gave her the freshest, 
sweetest roses, then walked to the window and sighed. 
She wished for music ; he picked up his guitar and sang 
all her favorite songs. While he thumbed an idle ac- 
companiment, Isabel dropped to sleep. Her shawl slip- 
ped from her shoulders and with the tenderest solicitude 
he replaced it so gently as not to disturb her. None of 
these things escaped Florence's eye. She was looking 
over a book of engravings with Walter, and assumed the 


268 


HAYNE HOME, 


utmost indifference to her cousins, but her quick ear 
caught the tenderness in Dayne's voice and the sly 
glances she cast toward him were enough to assure her 
that his heart was ready to break. 

The days passed without any unusual event transpir- 
ing. Isabel was rapidly convalescing, perhaps the 
expectation of soon meeting her mother (as they had 
received word that she would soon come on), had some- 
thing to do with it ; at all events she grew brighter and 
more cheerful and delighted her friends with her old 
serenity which for days had been sadly upset. One 
evening Florence was walking with her father about the 
garden. They had been talking very earnestly about 
something and Florence was very pale ; on the con- 
trary, however, her father’s face was flushed and troub- 
led. Evidently he had fold her something very aston- 
ishing, for the expression of surprise on her countenance 
was quite foreign to her usually radiant face. 

“ But, papa, will they not have to have another 
ceremony? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; I have that all arranged. I have tele- 
graphed for Phil to come down, and will give him a 
chance to redeem himself. He ought to have been here 
last night. I hope he won’t add one more brick to his 
wall of sin. Poor misguided Phil.” 

“ Papa, I wonder that you have any patience with 
him. I am sure the others would not if they knew.” 

‘^Perhaps not, darling, but we are all too ready to 
pounce upon the unfortunate. We don’t help people 
up,” Charles said. 

“You can’t say that of yourself, papa. Had it not 
been for you, uncle Phil would have been punished 
long ago.” 


A MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE. 


269 

“There he comes now. Darling*, go to the house and 
give me a few moments with him ? ” 

“Yes, papa. Bring him in when you are through 
your talk. Dayne is with Isabel.’' She said the last 
with a tremulous voice that was not lost upon her doting 
father. 

She ran lightly toward the house and met Dayne com- 
ing out of the hall door, his hat slouched down over his 
eyes, and his whole attitude bespeaking sadness. When 
he met her great, brown eyes, he flushed guiltily and 
looked away. Ignoring the expression, she said gayly : 

“Come, Dayne, and let me beat you at tennis.’* Be- 
fore answering her he looked into the parlor and saw 
Walter Reynolds bending suspiciously near to Isabel. 
As Dayne looked he remembered that Isabel had 
whispered that morning : “For heaven’s sake, Dayne, 
don’t leave me alone with Walter 1 ” and here he was 
sauntering thoughtlessly away and Isabel was subjected 
to the pain of the dreaded interview. No wonder he 
sighed, and looked away from the bright eyes at his side. 

Florence, watching him keenly, mistook his glance 
for jealousy, and thoughtlessly said : 

“Goodness, Dayne, where is your mind? You act 
like you were in love ! ” 

“Evidently you are not, Florence, or you would be 
kind.” 

With a toss of her head she answered : 

“Oh, I did not know I forgive me. Cousin Dayne,” 
and turned to walk away. He grasped her arm before 
she had gone more than a few steps and stopped before 
her ere she had time to dash away the tears that were 
standing upon her face. Tears ? Oh, Florence, 
what for ? ” 


HAYNE HOME. 


270 

But she darted away and ran to her room, and there 
in the solitude of the dear little chamber she cried as 
though her heart would break. Dayne was too misera- 
ble to see any one. He lighted a cigar and strolled 
away from the house, but he could not get away from 
that marriage nor from himself. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

DISCLOSURES. 

Oh smile as thou wert wont to smile 
Before the weight of care 
Had crushed thy heart, and for a while 
Left nought but sorrow there. 

‘‘Isabel,” Walter was saying, “I have remained a 
whole week over my time. I have lingered from day 
to day trying to persuade myself that you love me ; but 
sometimes, Isabel, I think ” 

“Walter, don’t, please don’i!*^ Isabel said. 

“ Don’t forbid me to speak. Let me tell you how 
entirely you fill my heart, how deeply and sincerely 
I love you. I would go away and leave you to 
determine by absence whether or not you love me, 
but, Isabel, I am too weak. I have waited as long as 
I can. Do tell me, Isabel, that you love me. End my 
suspense at once. Tell me that you will be my wife.” 

Her face was colorless, and her hands nervously tied 
and untied the ribbons of her dress. 

“ I cannot,” she at length answered. 

“ Cannot? Why not, Isabel? Have I deceived my- 
self? Do you not love me ? ” 

“I cannot be your wife. Don’t ask me.” 


DISCLOSURES. 


271 


“Isabel, there is something wrong here. I have 
seen it, but dared not ask what it is. But won’t you 
tell me if your sickness was the result of cold, or is this 
mystery enveloping you ? ” 

‘ ‘ I am helplessly enveloped. ” She covered her face 
with her hands, and trembled violently. 

“Isabel, don’t agitate yourself. I will not seek to 
know your secret. But tell me that you will be my 
wife ; give me that hope. Oh, Isabel, do not send me 
away. ” 

“You must not speak to me of love or marriage 
again, Walter. I have no right to love you, and I dare 
not marry you. Don’t distress yourself and me by a 
repetition of this.” 

“But tell me,” he persisted, “what is it that binds 
you ? Can it not be removed .? ” 

“Ah, no, Walter, it is immovable as fate,” she said, 

wearily. 

‘ ‘ What is it ? Oh, Isabel, what separates us .? ” 

“Disgrace ! ” She pronounced the word faintly, and 
hid her face. 

“ That cannot be. Your life has been as innocent and 
pure as a little child’s, and the disgrace of someone else 
cannot divide us, my love. Ah, no, my darling, that 

cannot come between us.” 

“You do not understand, and I cannot tell you. 
Walter,” she cried in despair; “if you ever loved me, 
leave me.” 

He seized her hands, pressed burning kisses upon 
them, and went away. She threw herself back in her 
chair’ and cried, just as Florence was crying upstairs, 
and Walter was walking restlessly and aimlessly about, 
just as Dayne was doing. On the opposite side of the 


272 


HA YNE HOME. 


garden Philip and Charles Hayne were pacing to and 
fro in an argument that wrought them both up to the 
highest pitch of passion. Charlie was saying : 

“Well, Phil, I only thought it fair to give you a 
chance to reinstate yourself.” 

“You are very kind,” Philip answered, with covert 
sarcasm. 

“ Phil,” cried Charles, exasperated beyond all endu- 
rance, “ do you know what the result of your villainy 
is .? ” 

“I do not know. But I presume you could inform 
me, as doubtless you have informed others.’’ 

“I could tell you, Philip ; but as to my having in- 
formed others, you know that I’ve not. Where would 
you be now if I had? No; you know well enough 
that your cowardly secret was safe with me,” Charles 
answered, quietly. And this was the answer Philip 
gave, in the most dogged fashion : 

“You are a sneaking old spy, Charlie, or you could 
not know so much about other folk’s business. How 
in the deuce did you find my little trick out, I’d like to 
know ? ” 

“ You’ll know soon enough. And I want to tell you, 
Phil Warwich, I’m not a spy. If I were, your boy, 
whom you idolize, would not now be paying the price 
of his father’s folly. ” 

Philip’s face grew livid at mention of the boy he 
worshipped. 

“What has happened to my boy? Tell me, in 
heaven’s name, what has happened to my boy ? ” 

“The worst possible thing has happened to him. He 
is passionately in love with Florence, as doubtless you 
know ; and to keep your name untarnished, and to 


DISCLOSURES. 


273 

save the reputation of Lawrence’s daughter Isabel, he 
married her.” 

‘ ‘ Dayne married ? Oh, you don’t mean it, Charlie. 
You are trying to frighten me,” Philip replied, affright- 
edly. 

Well, if I am, I’ve succeeded. You’re shaking like 
you had a chill. Don’t falter now at the climax. YouVe 
done all the mischief yourself, and ought to be pretty 
well prepared for the consequences.” 

“Don’t stand there preaching. Tell me what has 
happened to Dayne.” 

‘ ‘ I told you he had married Isabel, and ruined both 
their lives. Their marriage was private, and no one 
knows of it but your wife. Squire Jason, and Mrs. Rus- 
sell.” 

“Mrs. Russell What has she to do with it .? ” 

“She demanded the marriage in payment for silence. 
You see, Phil, murder will out. She, in some way, 
possessed herself of a diary that you had kept in cipher, 
and, as you had indiscreetly told your thoughts to its 
pages, she discovered this trick you played Loll, and 

brought the book to Mary, and the result ” Charlie 

did not finish the sentence. 

Philip was lying upon the ground, his face buried in 
his hands, and amid his cries and groans Charles caught 
these words : 

“ Mary knows it ! I’m ruined ! My wife, my wife 1 ” 

“Get up, Phil. That won’t help you,” was Charles’ 
admonition. “You are wasting time and courage. 
There is too much for you to do to let your remorse 
master you this early.” 

In unaffected distress Philip replied : What shall I 
do ? I am ruined. I can’t do anything. ” 

18 


274 


HAYNE HOME. 


“What did you expect to do when you played this 
infamous farce? You say you did it for revenge. How 
did you suppose your scheme would terminate ? ” 

“ I had not thought of it. I only wanted to do him 
a trick that would ultimately put him in my power. ’’ 

“ Well, you’ve not only done him a trick, but you 
have ruined your wife’s happiness and sold your boy.’’ 

Philip was too distressed to answer. He was very 
pale, and Charles observed, for the first time, that he 
had aged rapidly, and that his hair was turning fast. 
He was not the handsome dehonnaire Phil, who used 
to tyrannize over everybody and everything. 

“ I’ll tell you, Phil, what you can do. It won’t do 
for you to stay here if this thing is found out. The 
people in this vicinity will rise up against you, and the 
only thing is for you to get away. ” 

‘ ‘ But my wife ? ” cried Philip. 

“ Take your wife with you,” answered Charles. 

“ But there’s Dayne, our only child.” 

“ He is old enough to please himself. If he desires 
to follow you he can do so. Indeed, Phil, you must 
get away. ” 

“ Charlie, what is your composition, anyway?” 

“My composition has nothing to do with getting you 
away. Lawrence and his wife will be here to-morrow, 
and whatever is to be done must be done quickly. 
You would best consult Mary.” 

Philip closed his eyes to shut out the light that seemed 
to shine from Mary’s eyes, the good, true, little woman 
who had been his greatest joy in life. Now she must 
hate him, she must loath his name, turn from him in 
contempt for his perfidy. 

He staggered rather than walked to the house. Mary 


DISCLOSURES. 


275 

was indisposed, and had remained in her own room. 
Thither Philip went. Tapping gently, he was told to 
enter. Mary was lying on a couch, with her hair lying 
loosely over her pillow. She was pale and weary ; 
her eyes were raised languidly to his face, and when 
they recognized him they opened wide in surprise, but 
were filled with gloom and regret. He stopped at the 
threshold, ashamed to enter the presence of this woman 
whom he had disgraced. She arose and went directly 
to him, saying, with an attempt at her natural bright- 
ness : “ My dear husband, I am glad you have 
come.” 

‘ ‘ Glad are you, Mary ? I was afraid to meet your 
truthful eyes. You know my wickedness, Mary, and 
you are unhappy, too ; poor, dear, faithful wife. I am 
not worthy your love. I merit only your reproaches. ” 
“I have no reproaches, Phil ; it is not for me to do 
that ; but oh, my husband, could you not foresee the 
trouble, the disgrace, and the pain ? ” 

“ Say what you will, Mary. I am a brute, I know.'" 
“I cannot imagine you anything but the kindest 
husband. But, Phil, this wrong must be righted ; you 
and I must do it even if we have to sacrifice every hope 
of happiness ; this wrong must be righted, at the risk 
of everything else. I have done a most cowardly thing, 
Philip ; so cowardly that I blush to think of it ; but you 
cannot guess how frightened and pained I was, and all 
I thought of then was saving our good name, and in 
my cowardice I sacrificed Dayne to save you and me. 
I wish now that I had not done it. It would have been 
so much better to have waited. ” 

“Would she have waited — Mrs. Russell? You see I 
have heard it, Mary ? ” Philip said, contritely. 


276 


HA YNE HOME. 


“ Who told you ?'’ his wife asked, tremulously. 

“Charlie Hayne told me, and, to add one more 
Quixotic caper to his long list of eccentricities, he offers 
to help me out of this foolhardy scrape by sending me 
off. What do you think of it ? ” 

“He is noble and generous, but we will not run 
away from our folly ; we will stay here and fight it out.” 

“That’s philosophy, but don’t you know, dear, that 
the consequences will be most dire } ” 

“ Yes, I know it ; but it were better to take the pun- 
ishment at once than wear our lives out trying to escape 
it,” she answered, resolutely. 

“You are bound to put yourself in partnership with 
me in my crime, my love,” said Philip, with tears of 
shame suffusing his eyes. 

“I am assuredly in partnership with the punishment. 
That is inevitable, dear. Now listen : they will return 
to-morrow ; do decide quickly, Phil, upon some course. 
They must have another ceremony, and the best plan 
will be for you to acknowledge the deception and take 
the consequences,” Mary implored with her arms 
about his neck, and thus they talked for full half an 
hour, he essaying to find some means of escape, and 
she holding him to the yoke which she was so willing 
to help him carry. 

Towards evening, when the subject had been dis- 
cussed and almost exhausted between them, Mary said 
she would go and find Charlie, and they should abide 
by his decision. So, a few minutes later, Charlie and 
Dayne were springing up the steps towards Mary’s 
room. 

The meeting between father and son was constrained 
to embarrassment. Dayne had wondered if he could 


DISCLOSURES. 


277 


overcome this revulsion of feeling* toward his father 
sufficiently to meet him and assume a natural demean- 
or ; but when he saw his proud parent humiliated to 
the dust, and knew that the eyes were downcast be- 
cause they could not meet unflinchingly those of his 
son, the latter felt only too leniently inclined, and strove 
generously to disperse the fast falling gloom. 

Philip turned to his wife for an introduction to the 
subject He felt that he could not make his parched 
lips frame the words he would have spoken. Mary, 
ever on the alert for the comfort of those about her, saw 
at a glance her husband’s trepidation, and came to the 
rescue. 

“Charlie,'’ she. began. “ Phil and I are perfectly will- 
ing to make any restitution in our power, but we don't 
know how to begin it If we make an open confession 
it will entail any amount of pain upon all of us, and 
we cannot go away, Charlie, as you were kind enough 
to suggest ; that would be useless folly. Will you tell 
us what to do ? " 

“Mary, you are a most deserving little woman, and 
I am only too sorry to see you suffer ; but they have 
suffered so long, and now to bring them back to more 
pain seems hard, but right is right How are they to 
have a ceremony proper, if they don’t know that the 
other one was illegal ? ” Charlie asked. 

“Oh, I don't know," Mary answered. 

“And, again, this marriage between Dayne and 
Isabel " 

“Why, Uncle Charlie, how did you find that out ! ” 
Dayne cried, with consternation depicted on every 
feature. 

“Never mind, my boy. This marriage cannot be 


HA YNE HOME. 


278 

kept a secret long ; it must come out, and the whole 
thing will have to be disclosed after all. While we are 
all excited over the return of Loll and his wife, lefs 
make a clean breast of it, Phil, and own up,'" Charlie 
said, with a side glance at the man addressed, who 
turned to them, with his face as white as death and his 
brow contracted with pain, and said : 

‘‘Charlie, you are right. We cannot hold up our 
heads again after it is known, but if we try to shirk it 
longer, it will eat our very souls away ; it has gnawed 
at mine, until I had -lost all hope of peace. But Pll tell 
it to-morrow, Charlie, all, everything; and you will see 
that I willingly sacrifice myself as my atonement. I 
will tell it to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

adelf/s return. 

A bird sang in the orchard trees, 

Sang every nodding flower awake, 

Sang on as if its heart would break ; 

The music rippled down the breeze, 

And laughed across the clover bloom, 

And seemed to bring the sweet perfume. 

Within the shadows on my wall, 

Imprisoned in a golden cell, 

Another bird sang just as well, 

It answered every joyous call. 

And flooded all the house with song, 

In mellow measures loud and long. 

— D. E. O'* Sullivan. 

On the following morning they were all astir early, 
and before noon the entire household was thrown into 
a perfect tumult of preparation and anticipation. The 


ADELE^S RETURN. 


279 


day was a clear, sunshiny but crisp October day. The 
brown and golden leaves fluttered about the trees a 
moment and then fell one by one from the branches to 
the ground, as though expressing their joy and gladness 
and welcome by letting regret fall drop by drop. The 
birds lingered still, loath to fly away to their winter home 
until they had chirped a song of welcome to the home- 
returning wife. Little patches of gray clouds lurking in 
the horizon suddenly and fitfully scampered away, to 
leave the heavens blue and sweet for the canopy over 
her head. The chrysanthemums and gladiolus waved 
their pink and crimson heads proudly on either side of 
the walk, to make her pathway sweet, and the mellow 
apples dropped one by one to the ground, willing to be 
sacrificed to gratify her taste. Nature caught the con- 
tagion of enthusiasm from the members of the house- 
hold, and lent all her beauty and stores to the gratifica- 
tion of the wife who had suffered more than her after 
years could compensate. 

Isabel was on the qui vive, and, at the slightest rum- 
bling of wheels over the ground, sprang to the window 
or ran out upon the porch to obtain a view of the road 
towards the station. Florence was more than ordi- 
narily quiet ; it was not her nature to cogitate deeply or 
in silence, but her conversation with her father the 
morning previous, during which he had explained all 
he knew concerning the marriage of Lawrence, had 
filled her mind with perplexing ideas, and while she 
was happy with the rest, she was wonderfully disturbed. 
Mrs. Warwich, senior, went about the house humming 
softly an old air. She did not often sing, but this 
morning it would seem that gladness refused to be re- 
strained, and poured from her mother heart. 


zSo 


HAYNE HOME, 


Amid the most exhilarating surroundings, the carriage, 
containing John Warwich and the reunited couple, drove 
up to the house. Lawrence sprang down and almost 
carried Adele to the door, where she was smothered 
with Isabel’s kisses, caressed with Florence’s arms, and 
bathed in good Mrs. Warwich’s tears. 

How gentle and kind they were to her ! so anxious 
to put to flight the tears that their goodness drew from 
her appreciative heart, and Lawrence beamed upon her. 
He had thought he loved her long ago, when he led her 
to the altar in the ivy-grown church at Woodale, but in 
the fulness of his joy at having her once more at his 
side, he recalled those days and shivered at the luke- 
warm love which suffered him to be so easily robbed of 
his wife. 

There are always so many questions to be asked 
before we can, after a long separation, enter into a 
proper channel of chat. The several absences had to be 
explained away. Philip and Mary had gone to the city, 
but would return that night. Charlie had walked over 
to Aunt Prue’s, and must have become interested in one 
of her tales of Dick’s illness and death, to which he 
never tired of listening. 

Adele replied to the query regarding her father by 
saying that he had begun a picture, and desired to 
remain in New York until he had completed it. 

The hours were flying rapidly, and Charlie had been 
at home some time, and yet he had not accomplishea 
what he had hoped to do in that length of time. Adele 
had expressed so much pleasure at again seeing her hus- 
band’s brother that Lawrence jocosely declared such 
proceedings would justify him in moving immediately 
into a separate house. 


ADELE^S RETURN. 


281 


In the course of the afternoon, however, Charles found 
an opportunity to whisper to Lawrence that he desired 
to see Adele and himself alone. Accordingly Lawrence 
proposed to his wife a walk about the gardens before 
dinner, and the three set out together. 

When they had gone so far that the golden browm 
shrubbery screened them from view, Charles began by 
saying : 

“I brought you away from the house because what 
I have to tell you is a secret, known only to a few 
members of the family, and it will surprise and pain — 
perhaps anger you — so that I chose this spot, hoping to 
avoid intrusion.” He paused, because he was a poor 
conversationalist, and was really at a loss how to tell 
the tale he had begun, and in their wonder they could 
not even interrogate him. “ Loll, if I tell this tale, I 
must begin at the beginning and rake up old scores ; 
but let’s do it good-naturedly, and the part that seems 
villainous to you is the part I want you to forgive. Be- 
fore I begin I want to ask you, why you never had any 
marriage certificate ? ” 

Lawrence and his wife looked askance at each other, 
and the former exclaimed dubiously : 

“Ton my soul, I never thought about it.” 

“Nor I,” added Adele. 

“Strange! Well, understand that your marriage 
certificate was filled out and duly signed, and is now in 
my possession, and I want to brush up your memory 
a little by asking you who drove for you that morning 
of the wedding ? ” 

“Who drove.? Why, poor old Dick,” Lawrence an- 
swered. 

“No, he didn’t either. Loll.” 


282 


HA YNE HOME, 


“Oh, but he did, Charlie; Dick drove," exclaimed 
Adele. 

“ Dick was in Memphis that day. I drove the car- 
riag-e." 

''You? You are jesting, Charlie.” 

“Indeed, I’m not. This is the way it was ; and no 
matter how horrible my yarn may seem, don’t get im- 
patient, nor mad, because it all turned out right after 
all. Do you remember. Loll, the morning you and I 
sat over there on that bench and argued about Philip ? ” 

“Yes, Charlie, I was heartily ashamed of the way I 
talked that morning. But really now, Charlie, I was 
right after all, was I not? Phil proved my friend." 

Evasively, Charlie continued : 

“ Well, that was the morning of the accident in the 
woods. I met Phil down by the creek, and he asked 
me to help you get married. I accused him of hatching 
a plot against you, and the quarrel went from bad to 
worse till he got so mad we — well you remember the 
accident? I was at Aunt Prue’s one night when Dick 
came home and repeated a conversation he had over- 
heard, and it meant mischief for me. Phil didn’t like 
me and intended to injure me. So, when I found 
trouble ahead, I did not want to take the trip that I had 
anticipated, but Aunt Prue declared I would bring grief 
to mother if I stayed here with Phil. So at Aunt Prue’s 
suggestion, Dick and I compared our stature, and found 
but little difference. Dick took me to town, and we 
exchanged clothes ; I went to a manufacturer of hair 
goods and got a mustache as nearly like Dick’s was as 
possible, and got also a wash for my face that made 
me as brown as a berry. Aunt Prue declared that with 
my hat on, she could see but little difference between 


ADELB^S RETURN-. 


283 

Dick and me. Well, now comes the part that I am 
sorry to tell. I was loafing down by the creek one 
morning, and hearing Phil say something about hiring 
a preacher, I slipped up to the hedge and lay down ; 
and while I lay there. Loll, before heaven, I heard Phil 
Warwich hire Cronie to go to town and hire one oj^ 
Cronie s chums to come to Woodale on the next morning , 
and perform a marriage service.'' 

‘‘Oh, Charlie ! " Lawrence cried, and Adele covered 
her mouth with her handkerchief to repress the scream 
that threatened to escape. 

“That is true, Della, but Cronie didn't go. After Phil 
went away, I told Cronie that Aunt Prue wanted some 
things from town, and if he would let me, I would get 
a fellow, as I knew lots of them that would be glad to 
come. So to keep Cronie out of sight we stowed him 
away at Aunt Pme’s, and I went to town and got — 
not a chum — but a fully ordained minister ; and if my 
story seems too hard to believe, here,'- he said, unfolding 
a paper, “ is your certificate, with Mary Warwich and 
Charles Hayne as witnesses, and the Rev. John B. 

Lake, lives at , Street, Mobile, and remembers 

the marriage as well as any of us." 

Dead silence ensued. What else was fitting a nar- 
rative like this ? For a few seconds not a sound broke 
the stillness about them, but at length a little sob came 
from Adele's direction, and, looking around, they found 
her crying in a most pathetic manner. She made a 
great effort to be calm, and cried as she clung to her 
husband's arm, “Lawrence, why don’t you express 
your gratitude t " but Charles broke in hastily. “ Oh, no, 
Della, that is not what I told it for ; I was waiting for 
you to digest the information before I told you the 


284 


HA YNE HOME. 


rest. Phil is very penitent, and as he has no idea that 
you are legally mar 

“Does he not know of your intercession.?"' cried 
Lawrence, aghast. 

“Not a word ; he thinks you will have to have 
another ceremony, and I have, with Mary's help, in- 
duced him to come and confess it all to you. That is 
why I have explained it first. I thought if he told it to 
you, and left you to imagine yourselves and Isabel dis- 
graced, the consequences might be a scandal, and " 

“I can't imagine, Charlie, what the consequences 
might have been, but they would have been terrible to 
him," Lawrence cried with clenched teeth, and Adele 
said, in a horrified whisper, “I did not know a man 
could be so vile. " 

“Well, Loll and Adele, it is all past. You are 
united again, and mother and father are happy, and 
don't you think it will be better to forgive Phil, and let 
peace once more reign here, than to beget animosity, 
and arouse the whole vicinity to his wickedness .? " 

“ Forgive him, Charlie .? No ! I won't forgive him, 
though I will not make any fuss about it,’' Lawrence 
exclaimed, hotly. 

“ I think. Loll, it would be more manly to forgive, 
and if you knew how it is telling upon Mary you 
would forgive him for her sake ; she is perfectly 
wretched," Charlie urged. 

“ Did Mary know of it ? " asked Adele. 

“Oh dear, no ! not until a few days ago." 

“How did she find it out.? " Lawrence inquired. 

“That I will have to leave for another telling. You'd 
better forgive Philip, Loll." 

“But how can I forgive him such treachery ? I can- 


ADELE*S RETURN. 


285 

not realize it yet ; it is all like a horrible tale of fiction 
to me. Imagine, Charlie, if you can, the horror I 
should have felt at this knowledge, if it had been as he 
planned ! I cannot forgive him.” 

“You will think better of it. I’m sure your nature 
is too generous, Loll, to withhold pardon where it is 
sought for pardon’s sake. Besides, you have your wife, 
and will now be happy. Phil is actually being con- 
sumed by remorse, and can’t you let bygones be by- 
gones, for the sake of mother and father, and our chil- 
dren .? Everybody must have his day of sorrow. You 
have had yours, and surely the family generally has 
endured enough to justify it in hoping for peace. If 
you refuse to make peace, and set an exaiijple of further 
strife, the entire family must again suffer. Mr. Moore 
forgave you, and to him your marriage was fnost dis- 
tasteful. You forgave him, and yet you thought you 
could never forgive him for taking Adele away. We 
have daughters now, Loll. Need we make them any 
more miserable than necessary by inflicting all this dis- 
turbance upon their innocent minds Why won’t you 
see this as I see it .? ” Charlie was so intensely in ear- 
nest that -he forgot his usual reticence, and was almost 
eloquent in his plea. Lawrence stood, leaning against 
a tree, his hands thrust into his pockets, his eyes fixed 
gloomily on the ground. He looked up at length, and 
said : 

“Charlie, you are right. It would be shabby in me 
to refuse forgiveness after he has confessed a wrong of 
such long standing. But can you guess, Charlie, how 
bitter is the thought that, while I was trusting him, con- 
fiding in him, and giving into his keeping all that I 
treasured most, he should be practising upon me the 


286 


IIAYNE HOME. 


worst form of deception? Such villainy is not excus- 
able. The more I think of it the more horrible it grows. 
To think that he could sit down at my table and break 
bread with me, believing that I was the ignorant victim 
of his treachery — it is quite beyond me. I never want 
to see him again, nor hear his voice. It is of no use, 
Charlie. It may seem cowardly or brutal in me to 
create the turmoil of which you speak, but I shall leave 
the house when he comes down." Saying this, he dis- 
engaged his arm from Adele’s clasp and took a turn 
around a bed of frost-bitten geraniums. Charlie’s face 
was clouded with disappointment ; but he turned with 
a patient smile to Adele, and said, gently and hope- 
fully : 

“What does Adele think about it ? Is Philip beyond 
pardon ? " Her face did not change, until Lawrence 
turned and said : “ Yes, Adele ; do you think you could 
forgive such a heinous sin as this?" She raised her 
head and said : 

“ I have not been thinking of Philip at all. His sin is 
heinous enough, heaven knows ; but Lawrence, Philip’s 
crimes are not as abundant as Charlie’s generosities. 
There, Charlie, you are blushing with pained modesty ; 
but, believe me, I cannot, even in the monstrosity of 
Philip’s deed, lose sight of your magnanimity. Of course 
we will forgive him. Do you not see, Lawrence, that 
the advantage is all on our side ? Philip has his evil- 
doing to torture his conscience, and added to that is de- 
feat. He is certainly being punished enough, without 
our assistance, and we have given Hayne Home so 
many anxious hours, and there have been so many years 
of sorrow, that we must lighten the hours with joy, so 
that our last days may be light and sunny, and our chil- 


A DELE'S RETURN. 


287 

dren grow up happy. Lawrence, you cannot stand here 
by such a brother and refuse a plea that comes from a 
heart as void of selfishness as his. Philip shall be for- 
given, and we shall all be very happy yet Rather than 
brood over a cruel past, thank merciful heaven for spar- 
ing you.’’ 

Charlie grasped her hand, and exclaimed, in a husky 
voice: ^‘Ah, Della, if we only had more women like 
you ! I knew you would be sensible. How I thank 
you ! ” 

Lawrence came up, and said, with great embarrass- 
ment : “Charlie, it may seem to you, if I retract now, 
that my wife’s opinion has biased mine ; but she has 
done so only inasmuch as she has pictured me in my 
proper light I was so engrossed with thoughts of my 
own wrongs that I did not see that I owe you a debt 
that can never be paid in this world. But I see it now, 
Chad. Bless your old loyal soul, I will forgive Phil, 
and lend what little influence I can to redeeming him. 
We must not let this secret pass into other keeping. 
Mother and Philip’s father must be spared this grief, 
We do all ” 

“ Yes, that’s it. Loll. I knew you would not hold 
back when you had considered the amount of trouble 
you will save,” Charlie exclaimed, joyfully, and added : 
“ Shall we go into the house and have some music? 
The girls sing charmingly together.” 

“We will join you presently, Charlie. lam really 
more disturbed than I thought possible with my wife 
beside me. Ah, Charlie, I would divide my joy if it 
were possible ! You deserve to be happy,” Lawrence 
said warmly. 

“ t am happy,” Charlie answered ; but it was with a 


288 


HA YNE HOME. 


sigh ; *‘and I am rich as a king in the possession of 
Florence/' 

You are right, Charlie. I hope you will enjoy many 
years of happiness with her. She has been my chief 
joy." Saying which Lawrence offered Adele his arm, 
and they strolled through the barren garden, speaking 
in praise of the noble qualities that lay hidden beneath 
Charlie's plain exterior. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A MISUNDERSTANDING. 

Alas ! I love, and must not say it, 

My secret sweet I must not show, 

I close mine eyes lest they betray me ; 

I close mine lips that none may know. 

Yet can I hope to keep my secret 
When all earth’s creatures tell it so ? 

They sing it, sigh it, and repeat it, 

Till all the world must know my woe. 

— Lena Reed. 

Dayne half sat and half lay on the ground that after- 
noon. His hat was set carelessly back on his fair 
brown hair, and he puffed lazily at his cigar. His face, 
however indolent his attitude, was not in repose. His 
eyes were clouded with gloom, and their steady, thought- 
ful stare betrayed a most unhappy spirit. He had 
wandered aimlessly about from one amusement to an- 
other, trying to kill time, since the night he had pledged 
his hand to Isabel, and those days had seemed like 
weeks, and he was wondering how he should manage to 
consume the days that were before him. He had loved 


A MISUArDERSTANDIJVG. 


289 

Florence ever since he could remember, and never had 
his heart strayed away from her an instant ; but he never 
knew how deeply, passionately, and hopelessly beloved 
her until now as he sat here alone, and realized the enor- 
mity of the sacrifice. There is nothing,'^ he thought, 

that is so indissoluble as marriage. Great heavens ! 
why will people marry so rashly .? Poor little Isabel 
suffers just as much as I do. And this is the future 
that I have looked forward to. Florence, Florence, 
Florence ! ” Her name was all that had power to 
soothe him ; he repeated it to himself, wrote it in the 
soft earth about the flowers, and then chided him- 
self for thinking of her at all, when he could never hope 
to be anything but Cousin Dayne to her. 

A soft step on the grass beside him attracted his at- 
tention. He looked over his shoulder and there, but a 
few feet away, was Florence attempting to pass with- 
out observation. 

Her face flushed crimson and she turned away, 
hence did not see the look of passionate pain in his 
eyes. 

Florence, will you not stop.? We have not had 
a quiet chat for days. Come and sit on this mound.” 

She could not reasonably refuse, so she put on her 
most nonchalant air and sat down beside him. 

“Dayne, you are so very serious,” she said, kindly, 
“ what can you be thinking of ? ” 

“I was thinking of my future ; do you ever wonder 
what your future will be, Florence ! ” he asked in- 
differently. 

“Yes,” she replied, lightly, “but I did not know 
that men ever wondered about their future.” 

' ^ Why should they not ? ” 

19 


290 


HA YNE HOME. 


“I always imagined, Dayne, that life is pretty 
much as we make it, and as men have the ultimate ad- 
vantage of us, I should think they might mould their 
lives almost to suit their taste.” 

“Some do, but the cases are rare. I presume most 
young ladies look forward principally to marriage as 
the one great climax of their lives ? ” 

“Indeed they do not. At least not all of them,” re- 
torted Florence. 

“Evidently you don’t fancy that sentiment? Tell 
me then, my fair cousin, what the height of the average 
young lady’s ambition is ? ” Dayne asked, with the 
least interest in the world. 

“I think, Dayne, that sensible girls usually let the 
future take care of itself. There is so much in the 
present, both good and bad, that, if they do their advan- 
tages justice, they will find little time for the vain 
dreams you refer to. Men are generally not content to 
let well enough alone ; they are always grasping and 
reaching and coveting. ” 

“Oh, no, not the last named — always.” 

“Coveting? I did not say all men, I said the gen- 
erality of men are always coveting (their neighbor’s 
goods). Oh, yes, they are, you needn’t shake your 
head, Dayne. Don’t you covet anything, rank, riches, 
fame, or — or anything P’' she asked, with just the 
least wistful gleam in her eyes. 

“ Yes, Florence, I do,” he answered, with vehemence. 
“ I am the most covetous fellow on the globe — just now. 
Not rank, nor riches, nor fame — none of these — but 
something that is denied me, something that I shall 
never possess ; it is so hard. Oh, so hard, Florence,” 


A M/Sl/JVD£J?STAJVD/JVG. 


291 

he cried, sullenly, “do you think Isabel loves Rey- 
nolds ? ” 

She shrank as if a sudden blow had fallen upon her. 
If he had not been suffering so deeply himself he must 
have seen that the light had died out of her eyes, and 
left them cold and dazed. She was too proud to let 
him perceive the cold chill that his question had caused. 
She would make some kind of answer at all events, but 
her voice trembled perceptibly. 

“ I — I really don’t know, Dayne. Should you mind, 
should you care so very much if she does, Cousin 
Dayne ? ” Her face, with its tenderness shining through 
every lineament, smote him sorely. He was tempted 
to say “No,” but the thought occurred to him that if 
Isabel loved Reynolds, her marriage would be gall and 
wormwood to her, just as it was to him, and in his 
truthful heart he did not wish her any more pain than 
this loveless marriage would incur. It never occurred 
to him that his answer would kill all the life in the heart 
of the girl beside him. He was almost convinced that 
.Florence knew of the marriage ; yet it disappointed him 
to believe that it was so, for he reasoned that girls were 
so transparent that she could not so effectually conceal 
her love for him, if she felt any. 

“Tell me, Dayne, we are cousins you know, surely 
you can trust me ?” And he raised her hand to his lips, 
and answered : 

“Florence, Isabel is my wife,” and the pained tone 
indicated only disappointment in his wife. Because 
she started he thought he had surprised her with 
this piece of information. Her eyes filled with hor- 
ror. Could he be learning to love Isabel ? Was his 
marriage not a grief to him after all ? He must be 


292 


HA YNE HOME. 


jealous of Reynolds. Such ideas swept in quick con- 
fusion through her mind. How she suffered with that 
hot, scorching passion flaming like a great fire in her 
heart' ; love for this man who told her deliberately the 
secret of his life, and asked her if she thought his wife 
loved another ! 

“Surely, Florence,” he said, “ you knew this? I can- 
not have been so mistaken in your manner ; you have 
given me every opportunity to treat Isabel as my wife ; 
you have even tried, in your sweet, maidenly adroitness, 
to stand between Walter and Isabel, to prevent her 
being exposed to an offer of his love. I have seen it all, 
Florence, and I cannot tell you how I appreciate it, how 
humbly I thank you for it. Did you not know it, 
Florence ? ” he asked, seriously. 

“Yes ; Isabel told me the next morning. I could 
but think that she dreamed it ; but you seem to under- 
stand each other.” 

“Yes, we understand each other. Florence, can 
you not advise us jor tell us what to do ? Do you 
approve of this secrecy, or do you think we ought to 
openly confess our marriage and live like other people. 
Isabel will never love me and will always be miserable, 
but I hope not more so than she is now. What shall 
we do ? ” 

“ Don’t ask me, Dayne, I am not capable of advising. 

But, Dayne ”she stopped suddenly, and tried to 

draw her hand away. 

“What, Florence — what would you have said ? Flor- 
ence, what do I see in your face ? Do you — great ” 

“ Let go my hand,” she cried, vehemently, and, jerk- 
ing her hand from his warm clasp, darted over the lawn 
to the house, leaving Dayne sitting looking after her 


A CONFESSIOJV. 


293 

with a most bewildered stare. He slowly arose to his 
feet and walked away. ‘‘The prize I coveted is mine, 
and yet I dare not touch it. Oh, foolish, unhappy 
father ! you sowed the seed, and we must reap the 
harvest ” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

A CONFESSION. 

Let me go back, with sad, repentant hands, 

Gather the unkind words my lips have said, 

And bid me walk the years though on scorching sands 
But say to me their sting is lost and dead. 

Let all my fair days die, but those I marred, 

With selfishness and sin — I humbly ask 
To have them back, imwounded and unscarred. 

To live them better, this to be my task. 

Canst thou not wait, but now, O hurrying years. 

E’en while I lay at thy swift-going feet 
Atonement for the past, of prayers and tears. 

That of my cup of rue shall be some sweet ? 

— S. B. McManus. 

That day was never forgotten. The afternoon sun 
waned and sank lazily down in his western cot, and the 
purple twilight settled in a dreamy haze over the fields. 
The evening was cool, and Mrs. Warwich had ordered 
a fire made in the grate in the large parlor. They were 
grouped about the fire, all but poor disconsolate Walter 
Reynolds, who had gone back to the city with all his 
hopes crushed out of his heart. He had loved Isabel 
very dearly, and had built all his future upon marriage 
with her, and this was his reality. 


HA YNE HOME, 


294 

Philip and his wife had not returned, but no one felt 
the loss so keenly as he would have done, had there 
not been this mystery pending. But they had music 
and cards and the happiest and purest conversation. 
Dayne made the most vigorous efforts to talk to Florence, 
and,- as though nothing unusual had ever occurred, she 
laughed and chatted, sang her brightest songs, played 
her maddest gallops, and withal was so irresistible that 
Dayne began to wonder if he had not been mistaken 
after all. He was wretchedly unhappy ; he engaged 
listlessly in the pursuits of the hour, and though seem- 
ingly interested in everything about him, he saw nothing 
but the changeable Florence, heard nothing but her 
voice, and felt nothing but her presence. 

The morning following was a beautiful one, with 
nature’s intoxicating sweets all aglow. 

After breakfast was over Dayne and his cousins went 
out for a canter ; they had not been gone long when 
Philip and Mary Warwich came. Whatever resentment 
Lawrence and his wife might have felt toward this un- 
happy couple, melted instantly with the first glance at 
their woeful countenances and their discomfiture. They 
had both suffered so keenly that it could not do other- 
wise than depict itself on their faces. The thirty minutes 
that they occupied in the interchange of pleasantries, 
customary after so long a separation, were thirty tortures 
to both Philip and Mary. Perhaps the latter suffered 
even more than Philip, for her desire to make this error 
right was actuated by a purely conscientious desire to 
atone for so grievous an offense, while his was more 
through fear than anything else ; but to do him justice, 
it must be acknowledged that he was seriously-anxious 
for the anticipated interview to be held immediately and 


A CONFESSION. 


295 

ended. Adele both gladdened and pained their hearts 
by remarking their son's remarkably fine appearance : 
“ I do not think, Philip, that I have ever been so im- 
pressed with a young man’s face since I was young as 
I am with Dayne^s. He is surely capable of great 
actions. Mary. sighed, remembering that Dayne had 
sacrificed his own happiness to hide the secret of his 
father’s life ; and Philip wondered what Adele would 
think when she should hear that she had unwittingly 
praised her son-in-law. 

It seemed that Lawrence could not permit Adele out 
of his sight. When she was asked to go and look at a 
new flower, or consult with the young ladies upon sub- 
jects of importance to them, Lawrence followed with 
all the alacrity of a boy of twelve. This was amusing 
to good John Warwich, who, now that the pain and 
trouble was over, believed in leaving it behind and en- 
joying only the manifold sweets of the present, never- 
theless he sighed deeply sometimes, remembering that 
they had lost all their best years in sorrow and their 
happiness now would seem only too brief at best. 

The small clock over the mantel rang out the hour of 
twelve. Philip arose from his chair and approaching 
Lawrence, timidly and shrinkingly, said, in an under- 
tone : 

Lawrence, I have something to say to you this 
morning, but I cannot say it in here ; the room would 
suffocate me. Let us all go out upon the lawn. Mary," 
he said, turning to his wife, bring Adele." 

They all sauntered out together. If the readers who 
have no sympathy for Philip will pause to consider the 
enormity of his crime, and the amount of courage it 
required to confess his wickedness, they must invest 


HAYNE HOME. 


296 

him with a due amount of heroism. As a general thing 
it is hard enough to acknowledge a wrong when ac- 
cused, but it is doubly hard to make a confession gratu- 
itously. Quaking with apprehension, he turned his 
haggard face toward them, and without one appeal to 
Mary for help, or to the wronged for. mercy he began 
the account of his crime against them. And this is 
how the proud, disdainful Philip Warwich told his 
tale : 

“ I cannot expect anything but curses from you after 
you have heard my story. I know how pained you 
will be. I offer no excuse. My only reason for the 
deed was spite and hatred. I did it hoping that some 
day you would suffer for it, and now that the day is 
come I believe that I am suffering more this minute 
than you will suffer, for you have not, knowingly, com- 
mitted a crime, and I have. Adele,” he said, turning 
his handsome eyes to her /ace, ‘‘can you bear a great 
shock ? ’’ 

“ I believe so, Philip,’' Adele answered. But, never- 
theless, the anticipated horror of listening to a recital 
of this disgusting deception made her color forsake her, 
and caused her limbs to tremble threateningly. She 
wondered if she could possibly hear it. Should she not 
cry out in the midst of it, and beg him to stop ? She 
felt that she could not listen calmly. But his voice was 
falling on her ears. He was talking, evidently to her. 
What was he saying? 

“ It will be the severest shock you have ever experi- 
enced. Remember, I warn you ; it is worse than being 
separated from your husband, thousands of times worse, 
for it is entailed with sin and disgrace. Your marriage 
was no marriage at all, Lawrence. The man who acted 


A CONFESSION* 


297 


the role of clergyman was no clergyman, but a merce- 
nary fellow from town, who did the work for $30 ; he 
was not a minister.” 

Philip stood with bowed head and hands clasped in 
the mpst penitent attitude. Mary had expected an out- 
burst of passion from Lawrence, and the most pitiful 
sorrow from Adele. She stood before them, her eyes 
chained to their faces, which were white, but, for that, 
were perfectly the same that they had been before 
Philip’s recital. Perhaps they were sterner in expres- 
sion, but that was all. 

“ Phil,” Lawrence said, with an unsteady voice, 
“could you possibly do such a thing when I had 
trusted to your hands the most sacred thing that is 
given us — a woman’s honor? Could you risk the fatal 
consequences that must follow an exposure of your 
crime? Had you thought of the probability of your 
disgrace shortening your poor old fathers life? Did 
you forget that your tender, innocent wife would suffer 
all the shame that you must suffer? Had you no self- 
respect, no honor, no conscience ? Why did you do it, 
Philip ? ” 

“ I— I hated you,” Philip said, with, sinking coun- 
tenance. 

“For what ? ” Lawrence asked. 

“For being the son of my fathers wife.” 

The silence that followed this speech was so intense 
that each one could have cried out in pain. 

“Phil” — Lawrence laid his hand on Philips shoulder 
— “ is this all ? Did you have no other motive in hating 

me so ? Once you ” He was interrupted by Philip, 

who hastened to say : 

“ I know what you would say. That once I hoped 


HA YNE HOME. 


to win Adele. That is true. But, believe me, Loll, 
since I first knew Mary I ceased to cherish the slightest 
hope of such a union. That had nothing whatever to 
do with my wickedness.'’ 

“ There are two sides to your nature, Philip. The 
good all concentrates in your love for your wife. The 
bad has, unfortunately, centred in your antagonism 
toward me ; but when you played your game, Phil, you 
did not play it right. Is this all you have done, 
Philip.?" 

“ I have not done what I might have done. I could 
have saved you this separation had I chosen. I did not 
do anything to further it, only to keep silence. Yes, I 
did, too, Lawrence. I sent the picture and those papers 
to Frederic Moore." Lawrence felt Adele cringe, and 
put his arm about her to steady her. 

“ You did .? And where did you get them .? ” 

“I took them from your pocket as you lay uncon-« 
scious at mother’s." 

Lawrence’s answer was a groan ; he turned his face 
away and looked up and down the garden walk. He 
was not prepared to forgive so much. This little theft 
was so treacherously vile, that, hard as he had fought 
to control his anger, he feared that it must burst out 
afresh now. Adele could not trust herself to speak ; and 
there they stood, one meditating deeply and conscien- 
tiously, the other three gazing one on the other in mute 
appeal. 

“ And this is what I trusted you for — to ruin my 
wife, who would rather have died than sully her fair 
name, and to make my child a thing loathed and de- 
spised ? Where was your manhood, Philip .? " 

“ I thought of nothing then but spoiling your life, the 


A CONFESSION. 


299 

life that your mother had thrust between me and my 
father’s money.” 

“Your father’s money } Did you begrudge the food 
and shelter he gave me until I came of age ” cried 
Lawrence, in disgust. 

“ That is not it. He told me once that if I were not 
kind to your mother and you, I should be disinherited 
and all his wealth should go to you. I have mistreated 
and deceived you all your life, and I must suffer the 
consequences if my father finds me out, for he will 
keep his word .? ” 

“ Then why have you mistreated me, knowing that 
such consequences must follow } ” 

“You were a favprite everywhere; one had only to 
see you to love you. My father loved you as every 
one else did, and I was always regarded as your in- 
ferior. The true secret of my wickedness, Lawrence, 
was my jealousy.” Philip was white. There was a 
dumb despair in his eyes that smote his hearers, and 
Lawrence, thoughtful always of the comfort of those 
about him, was even now pitying the man before 
him. 

“ One thing more, Phil. You have told me how 
much sorrow you have caused and why you caused it ; 
will you tell me now why you confess it? You know 
perfectly well, Philip, that if this were known 'the law 
would deal most severely with you. After all these 
years, why tell it now and expose yourself to lawful 
punishment ? ” 

“ You have never committed a wrong, Lawrence, so 
you cannot comprehend the scourging remorse inflicts. 
It never was my nature to be penitent, and it is humib 
iating to my pride to do it now ; but I confess all my 


HA YNE HOME. 


300 

wrong-doing to you, Lawrence, first, because I have 
grown restless and nervous from dread of its conse- 
quences, and because my wife has aroused the better 
part of me to a sense of my unworthiness. Lawrence, 
I am not so weak as to suppose you can forgive me. 
I do not deserve it, and do not ask it. I ought to be 
and am willing to accept any punishment that you 
choose to inflict upon me, but I only ask leniency for 
Mary’s sake and Dayne’s. They have done nothing 
dishonorable, and yet the punishment falls heavily 
upon them. For their sakes I ask your leniency, and I 
will do anything in my power to atone for this great 
wrong I have done you. What shall you do, Law- 
rence .? ” And the pain in his eves hurt Lawrence 
more than any words could have done. He was the 
very personification of despair. Lawrence looked at 
him in sheer pity. After regarding him quietly for a 
time, he began : 

“ Philip, I am sure you must have expected that I 
would accept this information amid loud protestations 
and wrathful ejaculations. The fact is I had heard all 
this before. I heard it yesterday, and I tell you candid- 
ly that if you had surprised me with this information, I 
should most likely have done something that could not 
be undone. I was prepared to forgive some things, but 
I must say you have lain too much at my feet, and it is 
hard to forgive it as it is. But I can afford to be gener- 
ous, Philip, inasmuch as you were beaten in your own 
game. Cronie never went to the city at all that night 
for the minister.” Philip’s face was a marvel of dismay. 
“ Brother Charlie hired the clergyman.” Philip gasped 
his surprise. ‘'Dick Turner did not drive for us that 
morning. Charlie was the coachman, and here is the 


FACING FATE. 


301 

certificate of our marriage, with your wife’s name as 
one witness and Charlie’s — not Dick’s— as the other.” 

Philip threw up his hands, and said, “Thank God,” 
and Mary fainted dead away from her deep gratitude. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

FACING FATE. 

Sad the life is of a woman 
Stranded on a loveless shore, 

And my heart, for it is human, 

Is with deepest pity sore, 

And in spite of balm, is bleeding 
For the loved, imloving eyes. 

That so hopeless gaze, unheeding 
Where her dreary future lies, 

— Richard Lew Dcmsen. 

“Isabel, will you walk with me this morning? There 
are certain subjects I think it best for us to discuss be- 
fore we part, and this is our last opportunity. ” 

‘ ‘ I will be with you in one moment, ” she replied kind- 
ly. She came out directly, equipped for her walk. Her 
eyes were not as bright as usual, and her smiles were 
less sunny than they had been. Every action was list- 
less and weary ; her whole manner told of a despairing 
resignation. Poor Isabel ! She did not look like a 
young wife preparing for a iete-a-tiie with her husband. 

She joined Dayne at the gate which he held open 
respectfully for her to pass through. When they had 
crossed the road, and turned their faces in the direction 
of the forest path, Dayne took her white parasol and 


302 


HA YNE HOME, 


held it protectingly over her, for the sun had burst out 
warmly that day. Presently Dayne said: ‘^Isabel, 
there is no use in us affecting a sentiment we do not 
feel. I need not tell you, however, how deep my es- 
teem for you is, but it is not the feeling a man should 
have for his wife, and it is useless for me to pretend to 
ignore your indifference toward me ; nevertheless, Isa- 
bel, I have come here to make a proposition to you, 
and I beg you to make a conscientious decision. I 
leave it all to you.” 

‘‘Pray narhe it, Dayne ; it could not make matters 
much worse. I shall be pleased to listen. ” 

“I slept so little last night that I had an abundance 
of time to reflect on the little drama that we are enact- 
ing, and I have arrived at the very decided conclusion 
that something must be done. Your mother has had 
her day of sorrow, and it is time the sun peeped out 
from behind her life clouds a little ; but Isabel, she will 
grieve herself to death if you continue to wear this white, 
sad face and these melancholy eyes all the time, and I 
would suggest that you do one of two things. You do 
not care for me, but you are my wife, and as such I am 
bound to protect you the best I can. I will be kind and 
gentle with you, and you will have no complaint to make 
of my forgetfulness of my duty toward you if you will 
go away with me from here as my wife, and live with 
me as such. Remember, Isabel, I do not ask you to do 
this, I only make this proposition to you. I am going 
away Saturday morning with father and mother, and if 
you can consent to go with me, we will confess our 
marriage to your mother and they need never know that 
it was to pay the price of their honor ; we will be as 
cheerful as possible until we get away, and then, Isabel, 


FACING FATE. 


303 

we will have to trust to time and patience for the rest” 

“ I must admit that all you say is sensible and true. 

I shall never hope to be happy, Dayne, but I am sure 
that the esteem I have for you would enable me to live 
very pleasantly with you, and as for you, Dayne, I hope 
I shall be able to at least make you comfortable. We 
certainly cannot make our marriage any more irksome 
than it is now ; so if you think you will not regret the 
compact, I am perfectly willing to acknowledge our 
marriage and stare destiny in the face. You need not 
be alarmed about me, Dayne, I may have a white face, 
but I shall be stronger than you think. ” Dayne looked 
at her admiringly. 

“ You are a brave little girl, Isabel. Then since we 
are to begin life as the two sensible people we hope to 
become, do you not think we ought to confess our 
relation at once ? ” 

“ I am sure we ought. Dear me ! I wonder if Mrs. 
Russell will be happy after all her scheming ? Cora is ' 
so sweet and simple I am sure she would be humiliated 
to know what a cruel thing her mother had done.” 

The ill-fated pair retraced their steps a half hour later, 
with their arrangements made ready to put into effect 
immediately. 

They parted at the door with these words : 

''Go soon, Dayne, I can tell it much better in your 
absence, and when you have prepared a place for me, 

I will come.” 

" I shall go at noon ; you may tell them as soon as 
you wish, and I will write you advising you when I 
shall come for you. Good-bye, Isabel, God bless your 
good heart.” 

* * * * 


304 


HA YNE HOME. 


“ Florence, Dayne and I have exchanged views and 
arrived at the same conclusion regarding our marriage.” 

“ Have you, Isabel ? Is that the reason Dayne went 
away ? ” 

“We have not concluded to separate; on the con- 
trary we are going to confess our marriage and live 
together.” 

Isabel!'' was all Florence could gasp. 

“Why not?” We are irrevocably bound to each 
other, and we may as well be brave and face our fate, 
though it is hard. Dayne is so good to me I am sure 
I shall learn to like him very much.” 

Florence’s heart almost burst with pain. Her voice 
was very faint 'as she asked ; “And when are you going 
to tell your mother of this ? ” 

“Whenever you will go with me. I want you there 
to cheer me with your brightest smile. Oh, Florence, 
I trust your sweet life will nei'-er present such a picture 
to you as mine does. It is so very sad, is it not, 
Florence? ” 

“ It seems so now, dear, but do you know, Isabel, 
that there never has been a cloud in my life so dark 
that I could not see a little of the silver lining peeping 
out ? And I feel this will be so in your case. If you 
will but look at the best part of the picture, and not even 
stop to sigh over the dark side, I am sure you will not 
feel so dreary.” 

“But, my dear Floss, hopeful as you are you must 
certainly possess foresight enough to see this thing as 
it really is ” 

“Yes, I think I see it more plainly than you do ; par- 
don the interruption and finish your remark.” 


FACIATG FATE. 


305 

‘‘This is the question, dear, Dayne does not love 
me ” 

“Are you very sure of that, Isabel? ” Floss asked, 
wistfully. 

“Sure of it? indeed I am. Why, only this morning, 
Florence, he told me in the kindest way possible, that 
he did not care for me as husbands should care for their 
wives, and that is not much like love, is it? Florence,” 
she continued, cautiously, “I have deplored this mar- 
riage for my own sake, heaven knows, but in addition 
to that I am tormented with a conviction that you are 
suffering from it too. Be candid with me, cousin, did 
you not care a little for Dayne ? ’ 

Floss looked straight before her, but made no sign 
until Isabel said : 

“You are not offended, are you, Floss ?^" 

“Oh, no.” Then dreamily, “Isabel, I have a great 
mind to tell you something. Can you promise the most 
faithful secresy ? ” 

“ How can you ask? You know I will never reveal 
a confidence from you.” 

“You will not tell Dayne until I give you permission ? ” 

“My dear, Dayne and I have agreed to be kind to 
each other, but that does not include all of the elements 
of friendship. ” And Florence said, “I must ask you 
first to let me see your marriage certificate.” Isabel 
passed her hand over her brow thoughtfully. 

“My marriage certificate? Let me see! I surely 
had one, but I can't remember. Why, really, I don't 
remember to have ever had any. ” 

“Oh, dear I You must have had a certificate. The 
minister always supplies the bride with a proof of her 
marriage,” Floss said, warmly. 

20 


HA YNE HOME. 


306 

“Well, I really cannot remember anything about 
mine. " 

“That is because I have kept it so carefully for you, 
Isabel, and now let me tell you plainly and briefly, 
Isabel, that you are no more Dayne Warwich’s wife 
than that post is.’’ 

“ Florence, how do you know? Was the marriage 
not perfectly legal ? ” 

“Oh, yes, the marriage was legal.” 

“If you are in your right mind, Florence, tell me 
what you mean.” Florence could not repress a smile. 

“I do not think my mind is the least bit upset. Lis- 
ten, darling. While you lay upstairs in a direful state 
of delirium, that night I went to the arhor and married 
Dayne. ” 

“ Florence,” Isabel cried, grasping the lithe shoulder. 
“Tell me the truth.” 

“I have told you the truth, before heaven. I am 
Dayne’s wife, and you are free.” 

Isabel sank back upon a seat and covered her face and 
whispered, “Just heaven, reward this noble girl.” A 
voice beside her caused them to start in embarrassed 
surprise ; but Floss had no sooner looked into the be- 
loved face than she threw her arms about his neck, say- 
ing eagerly, with a slight tone of distress : 

“Oh, papa, you did not hear, did you ? ” 

Charles Hayne looked disappointed, but replied, 
kindly : 

“No, my child, I did not hear; but surely you have 
said nothing to distress Isabel to tears ? ” 

Isabel looked up, her eyes shining through the silvery 
mist of unshed tears, and replied : 

“ No, no. Uncle Charlie, only glad tears. I want you 


FACING FATE. 


307 

to know that she is the dearest, noblest girl, and could 
never do anything to distress me,” Isabel cried delight- 
edly. 

Afterward Florence turned to Isabel, saying, “Now 
that you are no longer implicated, you will not object 
to my telling papa about this } I do not want to have a 
secret from him so soon. ” 

“Tell him by all means. Floss. Do not keep it a 
day.” 

Whereupon Floss laid her pretty white hands upon 
her father’s arm and said, timidly : 

“Papa, one night I was lying on the couch by our 
window that opens out upon the balcony, and in a half- 
dream I heard Dayne telling Isabel that some woman 
had them in her power, and that there was no escape 
but for them to marry. I heard him promise to be good 
and true to her ; and in the most loyal fashion he ar- 
ranged to meet her that night in the arbor and have 
Justice Jason marry them. I heard it all, yet could un- 
derstand but one thing, and that was that Uncle Philip 
had done something dishonorable and their marriage 
was to cancel it. 

“As soon as I realized that I was eavesdropping, I 
got up and started to go away, but at that very moment 
Isabel stepped through the window into the darkened 
chamber, and said, ‘ God save me from this unhappy 
fate. I am so young,’ and then, papa, the poor girl 
fell heavily on the carpet in a dead faint. I ran dowm 
stairs for help and saw our Jane standing at the gate 
looking at a rose bush that was near. Y ou knovr, papa, 
it does not take me long to make up my mind to do a 
thing } ” 

“I know you are a spry little kitten,” Charles said. 


HAYNE HOME, 


308 

patting her shoulder, for which she flashed him her 
brightest smile. 

‘‘Well,” she continued, “I ran to Jane, and told her 
to come as quickly as possible and help me with Isabel, 
so that no one need know anything about it, and pro- 
mised to explain it all after we had restored her. We 
worked hard and long to bring her back to conscious- 
ness, and finally succeeded, and then she tried to talk and 
tell us something, but we would not listen, and forbade 
her to excite herself, and all we allowed her to say was : 
‘ Well, but Florence, I must be there at eleven o’clock ; ’ 
and we told her it was a long, long time until eleven 
o’clock, and if she would be real quiet we would help 
her. She moaned and cried: ‘Oh, help me,’ and 
‘ Someone save me ; ’ so that I could no longer with- 
stand it, and I mentally resolved to save her. But I 
was so afraid that she would tell Jane everything, or 
try to get but, that I grew almost desperate, and finally 
asked Jane if she could not suggest something that 
would produce a mild sleep or a harmless stupor, and, 
after ransacking her mind awhile, she remembered a 
bottle of medicine that had been given to grandpa when 
he was suffering from neuralgia. I gave it to Isabel 
myself, fearing that Jane’s trembling hands might let 
fall one drop too many. Just as soon as Isabel was 
sleeping quietly, I slipped out of the house and went 
around to the stables. I did not wait to put a saddle on 
the pony, and did not dare ask Tim, so I flung a car- 
riage robe across his back and climbed up ; and, oh 
how I flew through the darkness ! Charles was curi- 
ous to know where she went on horseback, as the 
arbor was only across the creek, and could not well be 
reached save on foot ; but he did not interrupt her. 


FACING FATE. 


309 

She was fairly radiant with earnestness. Isabel looked 
dreamily beyond her companions, who stood beside 
her. 

“ I went straight to Justice Jason, and rang the bell 
of his library door. You know, all of his family are 
away, so I was not afraid of being interrupted by them. 
I told him about this unfortunate affair, and he listened 
kindly. I did not mention any names butDayne's and 
ours,'’ touching Isabel's shoulders, “ and asked his help. 
At first he was quite unwilling to assist me. He had a 
great horror of doing anything that seemed tainted with 
deception. He argued that, in either case, it was bind- 
ing one woman to free another, and that the whole thing 
was ruinous to the happiness and prosperity of the 
family. He urged that the proper method would be to 
let the woman do her worst ; but I would not hear of 
it. I persisted and begged until I had about given up 
ill despair, when we detected the faint approach of 
wheels. For a minute, papa, I think I was nearly 
beside myself with grief and disappointment. After all 
my efforts to save Isabel I should fail. It was certainly 
enough to distract one. Whether it was my evident 
grief, or that he began to think I was right, I don't 
know ; but he eventually yielded the point, and, prom- 
ising to do as I wished, sent me away nearly intox- 
icated with joy." 

Having spoken thus far her voice began to grow 
weaker, and her fingers worked nervously on the black 
sleeve of her father's coat. The task had not seemed 
so limitless until now that she had reached the climax 
of her narrative, and saw the questioning glances be- 
stowed upon her. Confusion and mortification took 
possession of her, and to her it appeared that her audi- 


310 


HA YNE HOME, 


tors must mentally remark it, but they did not. Words 
were too weak to frame Isabebs thoughts, and as for 
Charles, he would have sacrificed much to have been 
able to manifest his admiration for his brave little girl. 
He took her hands kindly in his own, and giving them 
the most assuring pressure, said, in unusually softened 
tones : 

“You have evidently saved Isabel from the marriage ; 
but how ? Tell us what you asked of Justice Jason.'" 

“ What I asked of him was that, in filling out the 
license and certificates, my name be placed there in- 
stead of Isabel’s," she replied with burning blushes. 

“ And he did it? " her father asked, timidly. 

“Yes," she replied, with downcast eyes. 

He took her in his arms and stroked her hair. No 
one spoke for a few seconds. Charles was the first to 
break the silence. 

“Then, my child," he said, with gathering moisture 
in his eyes, “you are Dayne’s wife, and I have no 
daughter after all. " 

“Oh, papa," she implored, “do not say that. I am 
just as much your daughter as ever, and I shall never 
leave you, papa, never ! " 

“Ah, dear little girl, it was a selfish thought. Why 
should I complain of giving you to another while 
Heaven lets me see your face? I shall not regret, dear, 
that Dayne has won you, for, in a measure, I am re- 
joiced that it is so. When this unfortunate disaster 

is righted we will all be very happy to " Isabel 

sprang up, crying : 

“Uncle Charlie, this marriage must not be known. 
It is loyal and great in Florence to have saved me from 
such an unhappy position, and I shall feel forever in- 


FACING FATE. 


311 

debted to her ; but the others must still believe that I 
am Dayne’s wife. No one must know that this has 
happened. Oh, Uncle Charlie, you do not know how 
much misery you will occasion if you insist upon 
making known this marriage. ” 

‘‘My dear child, you do not understand. For your 
own sake and those 

“I do understand, Uncle Charlie. It is you who do 
not. Pray do not betray me. I shall be more miser- 
able than ever knowing that my salvation is mamma's 
ruin,’' she cried, covering her face with her hands. 

“Isabel, you are taking this too seriously. I know 
how unhappy you are, dear child. You made a noble 
sacrifice when you gave yourself to Dayne to save your 
mother ; but, my dear, let me assure you there was no 
occasion for that stealthy marriage. If I had only been 
here it would not have happened, perhaps. Your 
mother’s marriage was a legal one, as much so as ever 
a marriage was. I have not time to explain it, but 
Florence may do so." 

“Uncle Charlie, can you prove her marriage legal ? ” 
Isabel cried, with a face whiter than chalk. 

“Yes, Isabel, I can prove it. You poor, suffering 
girl, had I known sooner of Florence's intercession I 
should have hastened to relieve you ; but I did not wish 
to interfere until you had perfected your arrangements 
with Dayne. Now, I would suggest that you confess 
your little escapade to your parents, Isabel. They are 
the ones to confide in. Go with Florence and hear an 
explanation of your mother's marriage, and I shall go 
to Mrs. Russell and explain to her the uselessness of 
her scheme. Don't look so surprised, child. You 
should be dancing with joy,” he exclaimed, believing 


312 


HAYNE HOME. 


that she was going to break down at the joyous infor- 
mation. 

“I cannot believe it Oh, I hope it is not a dream ! ” 
Isabel exclaimed. 

“No, it is not a dream, Isabel. Come with me and 
I will explain it all away,'’ Florence said, drawing 
Isabel’s arm within her own, and, turning with a fond 
smile towards her father, she sang, softly : 

“For hope still whispers low and sweet 
We may be happy yet.” 

“Yes, sweet child, when I see you happy I shall 
be so, too,” he answered ; and had turned to leave 
the garden when Florence laid a detaining hand on 
his arm. 

“Well, what now, Florence?” he asked, tenderly. 

“I wish to say, papa, that, if you are willing, I 
should prefer that Dayne does not hear of my part in 
the marriage. That is, I do not wish him to know that 
I am — an unacknowledged wife.” 

“ But you will be acknowledged very shortly, after he 
is made aware that you occupy this strange position,” 
Charles replied. 

“Certainly,” she reiterated. “Dayne would never 
allow me to feel that I had done a rash thing ; but I 
don’t want him to know it yet.” 

“Florence, I am positive that he will be less miser- 
able if he knows the tide of this arrangement. Would 
you not prefer to make him happy and relieve his mind 
as you have done Isabel’s ? ” 

“Yes; but what I wish is this: He might be in- 
formed that his marriage is set aside, without knowing 
that I had anything to do with it. If his curiosity is so 


FACING FATE, 


313 


consuming, let him come home and find out how it hap- 
pened. May I do this, papa, dear.?” she asked, with 
her face wreathed in smiles and blushes. 

“Well, sly puss, you have the advantage. I am not 
well trained in such delicate matters as that of manag- 
ing young ladies, so I might as well yield gracefully, 
since yielding will be the inevitable result. But will 
you not let me do this alone, Florence ? I think I can 
effect your desire more completely than you could,” 
Charles asserted. 

“You will let him know that, so far as Isabel is 
concerned, he is free, but my name shall not be men- 
tioned.?” she queried. 

“ Exactly,” was the quiet rejoinder. 

“Well, then, papa, I will leave it to you. There, I 
must go to Isabel. Good-bye, you dearest of fathers. ” 
He watched them out of sight, and a fullness came 
into his heart when he remembered that he had found 
her but to lose her. 

He did not go to Mrs. Russell’s, owing to an appoint- 
ment which called him to the village in half an hour. 


314 


HA YNE HOME, 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

BACK TO THE CITY. 

Knee-deep in the topaz chestnut leaves, I nestle toward the place 
Where the pert and upright rabbit sits, washing her innocent face, 
Song of the quivering culms and osiers ! I am wading again, in truth. 
Knee-deep in the stream of Memory that flows from the land of Youth. 

— Robert McIntyre. 

Isabel and Florence strolled leisurely through the 
orchard and crossed over the pretty bridge that spanned 
the shallow creek, and entered the arbor where the 
strange marriage had occurred so short a time before. 

Prudence was gathering seeds from her flowering 
stalks in the garden near by, and came immediately to 
meet the young ladies when she spied them. 

‘‘Good-morning, Aunt Prue. Has not Jack Frost 
spoiled all of your seeds, or does he meddle with such 
well-developed specimens } Florence said, brightly. 

“Some uv em are 'bout spilt ; but Tm a-gatherin jest 
a few that's left. My flowers hain't done well sense 
Dick died. Dick wus powerful fond o' flowers, an tended 
'em right smart." 

“ Poor Dick. Mentioning him reminds me that papa 
has told me the circumstances pertaining to Uncle Law- 
rence's marriage, and said you were well acquainted 
with the details. He has also told me that Dick left some 
papers which explain the circumstances. Would you 
mind giving the papers to me, Aunt Prue ? " 


BA CAT TO THE CITY. 


315 

I wouldn’t min’ givin’ em to you, Florence, but may 
be yer pa haint ready fer ’em. He told me ter keep ’em 
till he asked fur ’em, an he ain’t never asked yit.” 

“That is because he has settled some personal mat- 
ters without them. Aunt Prue. We have been having 
very unhappy times at our house, and instead of all 
being so happy, as we thought we should be, we are, 
or have been, miserable,” Florence said, disconsolately. 

“ Why, I thought ye were all as happy as larks, now 
that ye’re gittin’ all settled like. What’s the matter ? 

“ Well, in the first place, Mrs. Russell found out that 
Uncle Philip had done this thing, and came to Aunt 
Mary and threatened her with disgrace if she did not 
accede to certain wishes. Aunt Mary yielded, and in 
doing so made a serious mistake which, fortunately, 
did not result as seriously as they had feared ; but Isabel 
is in perfect ignorance of the circumstances so far as 
papa and Dick were concerned, and I have brought her 
over here to enlighten her. I thought the papers would 
be more explicit than my recital. That is why I asked 
for them.” 

“Well, ye shall have ’em, Flossie. I take aheap o’ 
comfort out uv them papers, cause they wus all Dick 
had to give me. He gave ’em to me just before he died, 
and seems like I ken alius see him when I read them 
papers.” 

Aunt Prue wiped away a few glistening drops from 
her face, and Florence answered ; 

“Yes, Dick was an exceptionally fine man. It is 
very sad that he was called away so soon.” 

“Yes, it is sad, ” sighed Prudence. Isabel interrupted, 

“But Dick cherished the same sweet faith that you do. 
Auntie, and you must console yourself with the assur- 


HA YNE HOME. 


316 

ance of a future union. That ought to be comforting.” 

“ ’Tis mighty comfortin', an' I'm glad to hear you 
speak that way, my child, 'deed I am. 'Pears like the 
young folks nowdays don't think much 'bout their souls, 
an' I'm glad you're not forgettin' yourn. Dick was alius 
pious. But I'm forgettin' them papers. 'Pears to me 
I’m alius forgittin' things when I git to talkin' 'bout my 
boy. Come 'long to the house, it's too cold out here fer 
ye, an’ ye can read them there jest as well. ” 

The young ladies walked with the elder dame through 
the thick carpet of russet-brown leaves, entered the 
mossy-roofed cottage, and sat down in the old-fashioned 
parlor to await the information which poured into 
Isabel's willing ears like sweetest music, and drew 
forth ejaculations and prayers of gratitude for the timely 
salvation of her innocent mother. 

**si<***:ts>f« 

A week later, Lawrence announced the necessity of 
returning to his home in town, and as he naturally sup- 
posed that Florence would continue her residence there, 
he expressed a desire for Charlie to accompany them, 
too. Charlie had not formed any definite arrangement 
for the disposal of his future time, but he declined, 
however, and said that he preferred to remain with his 
mother. 

“But, Charles, you will be very dull here without 
Florence or — ” i 

“Oh, I am not going, Uncle Lawrence,” interposed 
Florence. 

“Not going.? Why, my dear, I had hoped you 
would make no changes regarding your home. I de- 
clare, I cannot so easily relinquish my claim upon you. 
My charge drew quite too heavily upon my heartstrings 


BACK TO THE CITY. 


317 

for me to resign my guardianship so readily/’ Lawrence 
said, with unassuming earnestness. 

“ I thank you for such generosity, Uncle Lawrence, 
but if papa does not go I think I will stay here. I — 
Uncle Lawrence, I hope you understand me, I do not 
forget your goodness to me, and I love you just as 
dearly as ever, but — I should like to stay with papa. 
I have had him only such a little while, and, having 
your dear ones now, you will not miss me so much.” 

Lawrence put his arm about her and raised her face 
so that he might see her eyes. He regretted most 
heartily that he must give her up. She had been his 
sunshine and hope, for so many years that even the 
possession of his own lovely daughter did not compen- 
sate for the loss of Florence. 

“I shall miss you, Florence, and I regret that you 
will no longer share my home, but I am happy, at the 
same time, to see you so happy with your father. I 
need not admonish you to be good to him, for you can- 
not be otherwise. Remember always. Floss” — here 
he dropped his voice so that no one should hear but 
Florence — ‘‘that you are daughter of one of the noblest 
men in the world. He is self-sacrificing and great. I 
think he was always misjudged and treated unfairly at 
home. But it was because no one knew him. He was 
as void of bigotry and selfishness as a saint, and that is 
why we never understood him. He never proclaimed 
his superior qualities before the world. I think,” he 
said aloud, “ you will find Charlie a more desirable 
father than I am.” 

“Isabel will have no cause to complain of her father 
unless she gets jealous of her mother,” Florence ob- 
served, which directed all the amused glances at Isabel. 


HA YNE HOME. 


318 

She came over to where Charles was standing, leaning 
indolently against the wall, and said : 

“ Uncle Charlie, there are several reasons why it 
would be desirable for Florence and you to come to the 
city, but I will only mention one and that is the most 
selfish one of all. I want her, and I will need her. 
There, you need not smile. You will learn very soon 
that there is no use in trying to battle against two girls.’' 
Charlie smiled drearily, and Florence came to them, 
crying: 

“Oh, Isabel, do not frighten me with such horrid 
pictures of futurity. I am going to be as docile as a 
lamb for a while, in order that he may accustom him- 
self gradually.” 

Charles certainly did not look much frightened as 
he clasped his hand over that of his daughter and 
looked admiringly into her face. 

There was much jesting and mirth, and Adele joined 
the others in their attempt to urge him to accompany 
them; but it was at length decided that he would go. 

They went on a morning train, arriving in the city 
at noon. They had all alighted, and were moving 
slowly with the throng toward the exit. A slight com- 
motion ensued as the crowd coming in jostled against 
those going out, and a voice that came floating through 
the air, uttering words that made every pulse in the little 
party throb faster. Mrs. Russell was saying: ‘‘My dear 
Walter, do you not see your friends — the Haynes ? ” lay- 
ing most insolent stress on the name. 

No, Walter had not seen them, else her words would 
not have taken his breath away. He shot a hasty 
glance at each face, and, without replacing the hat he 
had lifted when he bowed to them, he passed on through 
the gate; but his eyes roved restlessly, and common- 


BACK TO THE CITY. 


319 


place words, which he would have given worlds to 
utter, refused to come to his lips. 

The triumphant look which Mrs. Russell had flung 
at the familiar faces told Adele only too plainly that 
she was the woman to whom Isabel had paid such a 
price for silence. 

“ Is that Mrs. Russell.? ’’ Adele whispered. 

“Yes, my love, that is the woman who thinks she 
holds us in her power, Lawrence answered. 

“We are in her power for poor Philip's sake," Adele 
rejoined, quietly. 

“Yes, that is so. I doubt if Phil can ever be happy 
again. " 

“ Her daughter is very beautiful," interposed Adele. 

Charlie said not a word. He was grinding his teeth, 
and thinking but for this woman they might all be 
happy again ; but as long as that secret hung like Da- 
mocles' sword over their heads they could not hope to 
be happy. 

They spent the afternoon in quiet conversation, and 
made some suggestions relative to the house, which 
Lawrence wanted to remodel. In the course of the 
afternoon Charlie embraced the first opportunity to say 
to his daughter: 

“ Florence, I promised to show you Dayne's letter 
when it should have arrived. I received it this morning 
before leaving home. Read it and return it to me. ” 

He affected oblivion to her agitation. Walking away, 
he lit a cigar, and was soon lost in smoky dreams, while 
Florence read and re-read the letter, laughed over it, 
sighed over it, cried over it, only to read it again, and 
this was a portion of the missive that opened the windows 
of her heart and let the gladsome sunshine of love pour 


320 


HA YNE HOME. 


in : . . . . “Regarding the flaw in the marriage, 

Uncle, I could not be persuaded to believe it, if you 
had not told me of it I cannot conceive the possi- 
bility of this having been a mistake, when I took such 
pains to have everything done properly, as I have no 
desire to copy the fate of my poor misguided father. I 
should have done my utmost to make Isabets life less 
drear, had our lives been, as I believed, united — but 
can I make you understand, my dear uncle, what a 
weight of disappointment your letter lifts from my 
heart ? I had other hopes and desires which were 
abandoned when I became Isabel’s husband. Now I 
may cherish them again. I feel assured you under- 
stand to what I refer } But I shall never feel at liberty 
to address Florence in that way until I am confident 
that I am free. My vacation begins in December, may 
I write Reynolds to meet me at home at that time f I 
stood in his way once ; if I am free, I desire to make 
him that reparation. ” 

Florence’s heart beat almost to suffocation, as she 
read the words that convinced her that she reigned 
supreme in her husband’s heart — the husband who did 
not know he possessed so staunch a little wife. 

“ Ah, well,” sighed Florence, as she folded and re- 
placed the letter, “it seems cruel to keep him in sus- 
pense when he has suffered so much, but I shall keep 
him in ignorance of the gifl/ of a wife until he-asks for 
it, ” and the dimples chased each other in roguish glee 
over her face. 

The days and weeks sped rapidly by until December 
snows were mantling the frosty ground, and whirling 
flakes of purity into the faces of expectant holiday 
shoppers. Mrs. Russell and Cora were often seen in the 


BACJir TO THE CITY, 


32 


great stores with numerous little parcels, suggestive of 
pretty decorative employment for Christmas-tide. Fre- 
quently they were seen passing Lawrence Haynes 
residence, but only the coldest acknowledgment sig- 
nified their former acquaintance. Cora- was happily 
ignorant of the plot her mother had prepared against 
theWarwichs; and as the former had explained the 
sudden terminus to this friendship, by a few adroit crit- 
icisms upon Mary’s manner toward her at the time ot 
her late visit, Cora had accepted it all in perfect trust, 
and though she retained a warm affection for Florence, 
it was not to be expected that she would tolerate the 
acquaintance of a family who had cut her mother. 

Had Cora, conscientious and loyal as she was, sus- 
pected her mother oi doing an injury at once so 
treacherous, and so contemptible, she would have been 
plunged into the deepest humiliation. To her, her 
mother was the embodiment of purity and Christian 
grace ; and the discovery of her real character would, 
Mrs. Russell well knew, provoke pain, ten times greater 
in Cora’s heart than would the loss of the lionized 
Walter. 

One morning quite early a servant placed in Charles 
Hayne’s hand a card bearing on its face the name of 
Dayne Warwich. Charlie bit his lip and lowered his 
eyes to conceal the amusement he felt at this early, im- 
petuous visit. Opening the door of the drawing-room, 
his face relaxed into its broadest smile at the half 
serious, expectant face of his visitor. 

“ Hello, Dayne ! ” Charles said, abruptly, at the 
same time extending his hand in welcome. ‘'When did 
you come down ? ” 

“ I only arrived this morning. You are amused at 
2X 


322 


HA YNE HOME. 


my impatience. I may as well candidly assert that I 
can neither eat nor sleep until I am enlightened upon 
the subject of my strange marriage. I hope you will 
not keep me in suspense, Uncle Charlie ? 

“ Of course not, old boy; but Fm not at liberty to 
tell you any more than I told you in my letter. You 
are not bound by so much as a straw. Your marriage 
with Isabel is all nonsense ; and that is all I can tell 
you. There ! Your face fell a half inch. Brace up ; 
don’t look so despondent,” Charles urged, demurely. 

Really, Uncle Charlie, your words are tantalizingly • 
hopeful, but I might just as well try to find a lost 
minute as to imagine what intercession of Providence 
rescued us. I thought you would tell me,” Dayne 
replied, ruefully. “ Everything seemed proper ; the 
papers must have been all right, and the ceremony 
satisfied even Mrs. Russell, so what in the name of fate 
interposed ? ” 

“ Dayne, some one interposed and effected an escape 
for Isabel and yourself. But you see the price of your 
father’s folly is paid as long as you are supposed to be 
Isabel’s husband. If it be discovered that a trick has 
been played, Mrs. Russell will expose your father to 
the whole community. Then what good is it going to 
do you to find yourself free ? You see Reynolds would 
not dare pay his addresses to Isabel, and as for ” 

Just let me prove myself a free man, and I shall 
speak to Florence, with your permission, and if she 
regards me in something more than a cousinly fashion, 

I shall establish myself in business and wait until some 
dispensation relieves me of this irksome yoke of secrecy, 
then I shall begin my life in dead earnest and see what 
I can make of such a sorry beginning. May I see Flor- 


BACK TO THE CITY, 


323 

ence and talk with her ? Does she know the substance 
of this mystery ? 

“ Tm tempted to believe she does. You might ask 
her/' Charles answered, while every muscle of his face 
quivered with mirth. 

“Well, you are in a most mirthful mood, or you 
could not jest, so I shall not apprehend anything dismal. 
Pray send Florence to me soon, uncle.” 

Charles left the room and found Florence arranging 
a basket of flowers. The humor left his face, and a 
saddened expression replaced it. This would be the 
last time that he could claim an undisputed right to her ; 
from this time hence, Dayne would have an equal right 
to her, even though it were not acknowledged, he might 
assert his claim if he chose. 

“ Quite an early call, papa ; has your visitor gone .? ” 

“ Not yet. I am going to my box of papers. Some 
business matters, ” he replied, and stood toying with a 
rose that had fallen from the basket. 

“ Let me go and 'get it for you, papa. I think the 
keys are in my room.” 

“Well, you may then, dear,” and when she had 
reached the foot of the stairs he called stealthily : 
“ Flossie, bring them to the parlor, dear,” and he smiled 
at her innocent answer, “Yes, papa.” 


324 


HAYNE HOlUE. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

WEDDING BELLS. 

Fair were the fields to-day, and thou had’st found me. 
nearest thou me, ah ! hearest thou me ? 

Sweet were the bonds of love, and thou had’st boimd me. 
Hearest thou me, my love ? 

Sweet is the sound of the redbreast’s song 
When the owl flies out from cover, 

Sweetest is sleep, if the day be long, 

But love is best — true love is best, 

Ah ! hearest thou that, my lover ? 

The few minutes that elapsed before Florence ap- 
peared at the door of the drawing-room seemed to 
Dayne hours and hours, but at length his suspense was 
ended, for Florence, bright and bonny, stood on the 
threshold, with a box of papers in one hand, a basket 
of roses in the other, and a pair of brown eyes dilated 
to their full extension with surprise. 

The meeting promised to prove an embarrassment to 
both. Florence set the box on a table and went forward 
to meet her cousin, smiling her happiest smile and 
offering her pretty plump hand in welcome. Dayne 
strode eagerly to her side, took the basket from her 
hand, and set it upon a chair, then, seizing both her 
hands, asked, in eagerness : 

“Are you glad to see me, Florence ? 

With her usual gfayety, she replied : 


WEDDING BELLS, 


325 


“Wait until I recover from my surprise, then I will 
tell you,” but beneath the reckless answer was a per- 
ceptible earnestness that did not escape Dayne s notice. 

“Recover then, immediately, for I am fairly con- 
sumed with anxiety for some information regarding this 
strange freak of destiny. Your father said you were 
acquainted with the circumstances, and could doubtless 
tell me all about it. Can you. Floss .? ” 

“Yes, I know all about it.” 

“Then sit here, and tell it to me, I must know it 
now.” 

They sat down upon a sofa where Dayne could com- 
mand a perfect view of her face. She looked demurely 
at him, as she tied and untied . the ribbons on her 
dress. 

“Need you know it now, Dayne ? There are so many 
things to talk about, and this story is so long.” 

“Long or short. Floss, let me hear it now. What 
better time could we find for a confidential chat than 
now I am confident you understand the reason why 
I am so anxious about this flaw .? You surely know that 
it is because it prevents me from fulfilling the greatest 
desire of my life — that is to make you my wife. That 
is what made the marriage worse than death to me. I 
love you so dearly, Florence, so earnestly and passion- 
ately, that I would rather face the most pitiless enemy 
than to know that I was irrevocably bound to another 
woman, even though she be our lovely Isabel, he said, 
in passionate haste. 

“My father, surely, convinced you that you are per- 
fectly free, so far as Isabel is concerned ? ” Florence 
ventured, with the hope that Dayne would grasp at the 
last clause and recognize the delicate hint it conveyed. 


HA YNE HOME, 


326 

but in Dayne’s present mood, nothing but the plainest 
language could imprint its meaning upon his brain. 

'‘Yes, I must be convinced that I am free, otherwise 
I should scorn to speak to you of my love \ but you 
must tell me the truth — the whole circumstance — I want 
proof of the mistake so that I can ask you the one ques- 
tion that is burning clear through my heart. Answer 
me now, Florence. Would you marry me if something 
laid an unobstructed pathway to that event } Would you 
be my wife. Floss ? We used to be so candid with each 
other, and it was my undivided intention to acknowl- 
edge our betrothal as soon as our age would permit it 
reasonably. Now you have seen other men, eligible 
men, too. Have you seen one, Floss, you could love 
better than me ? ” 

“No, not one,’' she answered, gently. 

“And your heart is all mine, Florence, all mine?" he 
cried, eagerly. 

“Yes, it is all yours." 

“Then you will marry me when I can effect a com- 
promise with Mrs. Russell? Will you, darling?" 

Florence left her seat and crossed over to the window. 
Coming back she laid her hand on Dayne's upturned 
brow, as he looked questioningly into her face for his 
answer. 

“Dayne,"she began, “it will take so long to explain 
the incident, but the truth is, I — I am your wife now. " 

He sprang to his feet in bewilderment, and caught 
her hands in his own. 

“I don't understand you. There is no trifling in 
your countenance. You are in earnest, but I can't 
understand." 

“ No, as I told you, Dayne, it is a long story. But 


WEDDING BELLS. 


327 

to make it explicit, I will tell you that, after you asked 
Isabel to marry you, she fell in a dead faint in our 
room, and as I had overheard every word — I did not 
try to listen, indeed, Dayne, I did not,” she urged with 
a shamed countenance. 

“Go on, I know you did not.” 

“I could not help hearing it, and while Isabel lay 
upstairs raving and calling for some one to help her I 
went to the arbor and married you.” 

“But, my love, the papers ; they all bore Isabel’s 
name,” Dayne reiterated with blanched cheeks. 

“Oh, I had that all arranged. I visited Squire Jason, 
and got his promise to substitute my name for Isabel’s, 
and as you brought your mother in at the library door, 
I let myself out at Squire Jason’s front door. You see 
I got there first. ” 

“Oh, Flossie, are you sure the papers bore your 
name ? Are they properly filled out } ” 

“ You can see for yourself. I have carried our cer- 
tificate next my heart all these days, and have read it 
by sunlight, twilight, moonlight, and gaslight, until I 
could repeat it verhaiiin backwards. Don’t make my 
position any more humiliating, Dayne, than it already 
is. Heaven knows it is not a comfortable one,” and 
her bright brown eyes grew misty, but pride restrained 
the tears. 

‘ ‘ Humiliating ? darling, what a name for such heroism. 
Why, the moment my mind can grasp the conviction of 
the validity of these papers, I shall be the happiest man 
on the globe, and the proudest husband. Don’t cry, 
Florence, I am a brute to have expressed the least 
doubt ; but God knows, my dear, I would not have the 
least suspicion of a flaw in our marriage. Your fair 


HAYNE HOME. 


328 

name must not be subjected to the trial that Aunt 
Adele's has been. Why, Flossie, I shall have some- 
thing to live for now ; something to incite my ambition. 
Even though our marriage cannot be made public, for 
a time, we shall be happy in each other’s love, knowing 
that we belong to each other, ‘for weal or for woe, ’my 
precious, heroic little wife^ Think of that Floss, my 
wife ! Is it not too good to be true } ” 

“Oh, don’t rriention heroism ! There was nothing 
heroic about it. I presume some might think I had 
sinister motives in doing as I did, but I had not. My 
actions were too impulsive to be anything but disin- 
terested. Of course, Dayne, this marriage must be kept 
a dead secret, and even if there are no obstacles in our 
way, some day we will have another ceremony, just as 
if nothing of this kind had ever occurred. I only did 
it to satisfy Mrs. Russell.” Dayne drew her down upon 
the sofa, and drank in her words, wondering meanwhile 
how he should ever make her understand how pas- 
sionately he adored her, or how intensely happy he 
was. 

“You are perfectly right, my sweet, about the cere- 
mony. I can’t realize how I could stand at your side 
and hold your hand while Squire Jason bound us 
together and not recognize you, and give you a most 
emphatic embrace there in that old, dark arbor. Why, 
Floss, I asked you if you were so very miserable, and 
I remember your answer, ‘Not so very miserable, 
Dayne, but I wish it were otherwise,’ and I did not 
recognize my prize,” he exclaimed, kissing her warmly. 

“ I was not so miserable as one might imagine ; but 
I was so frightened lesc I should be found out.” 

After they had conversed several minutes upon sub- 


WEDDING BELLS. 


329 

jects that Dayne’s marriage had excluded from them, 
Dayne said : 

You see, Floss, we might openly defy Mrs. Russell, 
and get married again, but that would disgrace father, 
and his disgrace must be shared by all of us. Until 
there is some way to effectually hide fathers shame, 
you shall never share my name — ” 

“Oh, Dayne, I 

“Yes, darling, I know you would accept it, just as 
bravely as yoi^took it that night 

“When you had offered it to another girl!” she 
answered, roguishly. 

A half hour later, Charles Hayne had been summoned 
and entered the room with a face bearing unmistakable 
traces of agitation. The pair of happy faces that smiled 
at him as he entered the room made his heart ache 
tenfold more sorely. But he took their hands and 
blessed them in his brusque fashion, and listened to 
Day lie’s rapturous expressions of admiration and joy ; 
and no one knew the weariness and regret he felt at 
finding himself once more alone. What a brief, happy 
dream his reunion with his child had been, and now — ■ 
well, her happiness was the balm that took the smart 
from the wound. 

Two days later Mrs. Russell, sitting in her boudoir, 
was addressed by a maid, who said that old mad Jule 
was at the kitchen door and begged for something 
to eat. 

“ Mad Jule .? ” interrogated Mrs. Russell. “I supposed 
the poor old witch was .dead long ago. Tm sure old 
Nettie thinks she is. Give her something to eat, poor 
old thing 1 ” 

But after she had dismissed the maid her curiosity to 


330 


HA YNE HOME. 


Bee this poor demented creature prompted her to go to 
the kitchen, where she found Julia eating from a plate 
heaped with palatable remnants from the dinner. 

“ How do you do, Julia? Where have you kept your- 
self hidden so long ? ” 

‘H’se ben down to the ole Reed Place, but got so col' 
I like to froze, Mis Russell," Julia answered. 

“ Is not that the Haunted Hall, Julia ? " 

‘‘Yaas ; I reckon they does call it thet, but thar haint' 
ben no ghosts round sence Pse ben thar.” Then her 
mind suddenly lost the subject, and her eyes rolled 
about the room, and her hand sought the pocket of her 
old tattered gown and fumbled about nervously, while 
she made guttural sounds and talked incoherently, much 
to Mrs. Russell’s annoyance, for since Julia had men- 
tioned the old Reed Place as her recent habitation Mrs. 
Russell began to take a lively interest in her uncouth 
guest. 

“What have you in your pocket, Julia?" she asked, 
kindly. 

Julia tittered idiotically and replied : “I can’t fin’ it 
no place, an’ them thar spooks must have carried it off. 
Kase I put it thar shoah.” 

“ Put it where, Julia ? ” 

“He, he ! ye can’t git dis chile ter do nufhn, ’thout 
munny. Mass Warruck — nuffin ’thout payin’ shuh ’nuff 
munny. I do that dis hyar minut’ fer munny. See it ? 
Thet’s tha munny he give me, when I done gon and 
tuk them thar papers. He, he, he ! Ole Massa Mooh, 
he jes shet thar doah right slam bang in dis chile’s face, 
he did." Then she threw her head back and laughed 
a demoniac laugh that thrilled Mrs. Russell’s sensitive 
nerves with horror. 


WEDDING BELLS. 


331 

“Let me see your money, Julia. May I count it ? 
What a pretty box ; let me see it.” 

Thet thar box is full uv munny — shuh ^nuff munny, 
too. Them papers was in thar, too, sumpin got ^em. 
Mus’ ben them ghos.” She scratched her head and 
fumbled about her dress again. “Got s’more papers, 
too. Jes got em las night Ole Prue she don go crazy 
shuh when she fin' dem papers am gon. He, he, he ! 
she's mighty scairt 'bout dis time, she am.” 

“Why, how did you get these papers, Julia? How 
pretty ! let me see them. ” 

“He, he ! Ye see, Mis Russell, Ole Prue she was 
a-readin uv em an a-crying like eberyting, an she neber 
know'd dat I 'us right dar close by like, an when she 
hed cried 'nuff she jest got up an says, says she : ‘ Oh, 
Philip Warruck, may the Lawd forgive yoah powful 
sin.' Ole Miss Prue, I guess ye spill no moah tears on 
dese hyar papahs. He, he ! ” 

Mrs. Russell seized the papers, and when Julia relapsed 
into one of her dreamy musings, in which she chattered, 
utterly oblivious to all about her, carried them into her 
own room. She had no sooner sat down in her accus- 
tomed seat at the window, than Julia's coarse, gruff 
voice said close to her ear : “ Gimme dem papahs. Mis 
Russell." 

“ Julia, you have done a very wicked thing in stealing 
these papers from Mrs. Wells, and I shall return them 
to her.” 

“No ye won', Mis Russell, no ye won'.” 

“Go away now, Julia, don't you know you might be 
put in prison for taking these? You would better get 
away now, as fast as you can, or I shall report you to 


HA YNE HOME. 


332 

the authorities. Go now this minute ! ” Mrs. Russell 
pointed menacingly to the door. 

“Ye kin, uv coase, have me Vested fer dat, but ye 
won’. I knose dat ye won’. See if ye does,” and with a 
grin that Mrs. Russell would have given much to under- 
stand, Julia went out of the house, showing every tooth 
in her ill-shaped mouth with her hideous laugh. 

When the door closed upon her unkempt person, Mrs. 
Russell drew a deep breath of relief and exclaimed : 

“There, Miss Isabel, I understand that Walter has 
called twice to see you, but I guess he will not call 
again,” and with a triumphant smile she placed the 
papers in her bosom and resumed her embroidery. 

That evening Charles Hayne, Philip Warwich and a 
real estate agent left the city on an evening train, arriv- 
ing at Hayne Home at nine o’clock. They had gone 
to in-C^estigate a piece of land adjoining Hayne Home, 
which Charles hoped to purchase. They found the 
house deserted, but the doors were unlocked and the 
appearance within indicated a sudden exit. They start- 
ed to walk over to Wicksburr, but had gone but a short 
distance when streaks of lurid flame brightened the sky 
in the direction of Philip’s former home. 

“Look ! ” he exclaimed, “ there is fire, and it is cer- 
tainly my house,” and he quickened his pace, while the 
two companions added that in all probability there was 
where John and Prudence had gone. 

Philip fairly glided over the frosty ground until he 
was within a few yards of the handsome residence, 
which was a mass of flame, when he unexpectedly ran 
against Mrs. Russell, running frantically about, crying 
and wringing her hands in direst distress. 


IVEDDING BELLS, 


333 

‘ Oh, Mr. Warwich, for God^s sake save my child ! 
Oh, save her ! save her, I pray you save ” 

‘‘ Where is she, quick, Mrs. Russell ! Where is she.? ” 
at the same time throwing, off his coat. 

“Upstairs. Ah, she is being burned alive! That 
water cannot quench such a fire, some one save her I 
Oh, Cora, Cora 1 

“ Get me a ladder here, quick I There, put it up at 
that window I ” 

“Oh, Mr. Warwich cried a dozen voices, “you 
never can get to that window alive. That room- ” 

“Hold this ladder, and watch for me, I say!’' and 
while some prayed, others called him a maniac, and 
others, of the women and children, ran away to hide 
from the sight, as he ascended the ladder amid smoke so 
thick and stifling that he had to close his eyes and grope 
his way to the window and into the room where, after 
fighting smoke with all his might, he succeeded in 
reaching the prostrate form of the beautiful Cora Russell, 
and said to himself, “lam too late, she has suffocated ; 
but I’ll carry her form unscathed to her frantic mother, ” 
and just at this juncture a fierce cloud of flame shot into 
the room, and a wall on the opposite side of the house 
fell in. The crowd without screamed, and watched 
with horror-stricken faces for the figure of the man 
who had risked his life to save the daughter of his bitter- 
est foe. When he at last reached the window the flames 
were leaping and dancing in fiendish joy over the ruin 
they were making. Philip called out, “Steady, boys ! ” 
and started down the creaking ladder, with his fair 
burden lying a limp, helpless mass across his chest. 

How he reached the ground he never knew ; for when 
a few feet above the anxious crowd, he swayed and 


334 


HA YNE HOME, 


would have fallen had not Charlie Hayne sprung’ up 
the rounds and taken the unconscious burden from his 
arms, while strong men caught his falling form, and 
carried him off to restore him. His face was seared 
and blackened. His hair was a mass of ashes, and his 
hands were frightfully burned. It was evident that life 
was not extinct. Philip was wholly unconscious of his 
sufferings. 

When the people gathered about the prostrate form of 
Cora, and rejoiced in the gladness of her salvation, 
some enthusiastic member of the appalled assembly 
proposed three cheers for Philip. This was responded 
to with such lusty yells that the unconscious hero 
opened his eyes, bent them upon Charlie’s face, and 
dreamly inquired ; ‘‘What is all this fuss about, and 
what is the matter with me .? ” 

The fuss, Phil, is a rude ovation to your heroic 
deed. You saved Cora Russell’s life, my boy. ” 

When Mrs. Russell had been moved to Wicksburr, 
with Cora, the former was soon brought to conscious- 
ness ; but before Philip had regained his injured sight, 
or emerged from the room where he had first been car- 
ried, Cora, beautiful, petted, idolized Cora, died ; and 
her grief-crazed mother thereafter sought to quench her 
sorrow by making, as nearly as possible, some repa- 
ration for the misery she had caused these unhappy 
people. She would nurse Philip back to health. Not 
one thing that willing hands could do was left undone 
toward his comfort and ease. When friends remon- 
strated with her, and told her she was ruining her own 
health with loss of sleep and nervous grief, she replied 
that this was all she could do to repay her debt of 
gratitude for his heroic service. But in her own room 


WEDDING BELLS. 


355 

when she offered prayers to heaven for his restoration, 
she called it an atonement for the grief she. had inflicted. 

But the hours of convalescence were tedious and 
long, and it was during this period of anxious care 
that Mrs. Russell and Mary grew to love each other 
with all their hearts. One day, when Phil was pro- 
nounced almost well, and sat in a chair by the lace- 
draped window, Mrs. Russell told them of the visit 
from Mad Jule, explained the motive she had in keep- 
ing the papers, and made a confession so full and 
free, and begged so humbly and contritely for their 
pardon, that they loved her for her open confession 
and for the good that she had done. When the secret 
marriage of Florence was told her, and, subsequently, 
the engagement of Isabel and Walter, none rejoiced 
more sincerely than Mrs. Russell, nor offered con- 
gratulations and wishes more kindly than she. 

Thus, through the intercession of Charlie, a boy 
whose brusque and unpolished exterior won for him 
only tolerance for his eccentricities, through his in- 
genuity a woman's most sacred dower, her fair name, 
was protected from the taint of a lawless marriage. 
Then again, the child whom God in His wisdom threw 
into the lap of its parents, manifested the same true 
spirit of right, and baffled an intriguing woman by 
flinging her life, unasked, "between two souls “as wide 
betwixt as heaven and earth,” paving thereby the path- 
way to happiness, that so deservingly lies before our 
friends at Hayne Home. 

He :f: * * 

The magnificent residence of Lawrence Hayne is 
brilliantly illumined, iho odor of flowers is wafted 
through the open windows and borne upon the sweet 


336 


HAYNE HOME. 


June air, melting in intoxicating sweetness with the 
joyous strains of a wedding march. 

Two fair young girls, with proud, queenly carriage, 
each leaning trustingly upon the arm of a handsome 
cavalier, pause beneath gorgeous festoons of flowers 
while the service is read which binds each pair of 
hearts 

Close as twin stars in azure setting. 

Everyone seems happy. Adele and Lawrence ad- 
vance together to bless their child and her beloved 
Walter. Tears glistened brightly on Adele’s sweet, 
fair face, as she prays that God will pour into her child’s 
life the sweetness that was denied her, and Walter’s 
answer is sweet to her mother-heart: “ Heaven grant 
that we may never cause you sadder tears. ” 

Charles Hayne leads Frederic Moore across to the 
flower-like brides. The latter smiles as he has not 
done in years, and says holding a hand of each of the 
brides : 

‘ ‘ This is the first time that I have ever looked on the 
brightest side of life without feeling the shadow of the 
darkest. After so many years of heartache, I pray God 
we may all be at peace together. ” And Florence replies, 
gaily: “There would be much less heartache, dear 
Mr. Moore, if we could all say truthfully, as Riley has 
said : 

It aint no use to grumble and complain, 

It’s just as cheap and easy to rejoice ; 

When God sorts out the weather and sends rain ; 

W’y, rain’s my choice.” 


THE END. 


Author’s Note. — The author can only say in conclusion 
that all the characters not disposed of gained health, strength 
and pleasure from adopting the popular pastime of bicycle 
riding. The bicycle has within a few years been adopted by 
doctors, lawyers, clergymen, merchants; by ladies as well as 
gentlemen. It is worth a thousand times more than any health 
device ever invented and its continued use instead of becoming 
irksome is a source of continually increasing pleasure. It is a 
difficult task to select from the ma,ny makes of bicycles just the 
one that is suited to one’s fancies and needs. Anyone contem- 
plating the purchase of a bicycle will do well to investigate the 
matter thoroughly. This can be done in no better way than by 
consulting one of the papers devoted to cycling such as The 
Bearings (one dollar a year), published at 71 Kandolph street, 
Chicago, by N. H. Van Sicklen and Geo. K. Barrett, two of the 
oldest and best-known wheelmen in America. It contains cuts 
and descriptions of all the leading makes of cycles. 

Finis. 



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